THE DEFECTOR [070-066-4.9]

By: Evelyn Anthony

Synopsis:

The Defector He was her mission: Ivan Sasanov, top KGB agent and a
potentially important defector.  She was his debriefer Davina Graham, a
dedicated British operative who made her work her life.  But he was
lonely and bored, and he missed his family.  So she took him home.  When
she fell in love with Sasanov, Davina Graham already knew that he would
only co-operate if they brought his wife and daughter out of Russia.  It
was an almost impossible mission booby-trapped by treachery and studded
with deceit but it was one for which she had to volunteer.

Even if by some strange and miraculous twist of fate she succeeded as an
agent, she would have lost the only thing she wanted as a woman.  '

"Rivals Hitchcock" BRITISH BOOK NEWS

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THE DEFECTOR

Evelyn Anthony started writing seriously in 1949 and before turning to
espionage and psychological thrillers she wrote a succession of highly
successful historical novels, all of which were widely translated and
two of which became Literary Guild Choices in America.

Evelyn Anthony's books are translated into nineteen languages.  She is
married to the chairman of several public companies.  They have four
sons and two daughters, and live in a stately home in Sussex.  Her
hobbies are gardening and listening to classical music.

Also by Evelyn Anthony

Albatross

The Assassin

The Avenue of the Dead

The Company of Saints

The Grave of Truth

The Legend

Malasfuga

Exit

No Enemy but Time

The Occupying Power

The Poellenberg Inheritance

The Rendezvous

The Return

Wees on the Wind

EVELYN ANTHONY

ARROW BOOKS

Arrow Books Limited 62-65 Chandos Place, London we2N 4NW

An imprint of Century Hutchinson Limited London Melbourne Sydney
Auckland Johannesburg and agencies throughout the world First published
by Hutchinson 1980 Reprinted 1980 and 1983 Arrow edition 1982 Reprinted

Evelyn Anthony 1980 This book is sold subject to the condition that it
shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or
otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form
of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without
a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the sub
sequent purchaser

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Anchor Brendon Limited, Tiptree,
Essex

ISBN 0 09 926740 3

To my dear friends Isidore and Blanche with love

The man sitting opposite Davina Graham lit a cigarette.  He smoked Sub
Rosa, the fattest and most expensive Turkish cigarette, made by
Sullivans in Burlington Arcade.  The name amused him and it had become
his trade-mark.  A capacity to deliver bad news with an ingratiating
smile was another characteristic; crisis never disturbed that avuncular
calm, and he had never been seen to frown or glare like other people
when he was angry.  In fact, Davina thought, looking at him, he showed
no genuine human feeling at all. The bonhomie was as false as the
friendly concern he showed his people when they had gone wrong.  A
cold-hearted, calculating bastard. Which was exactly what his job
required.  Unlike the fictional heads of the Secret Intelligence
Service, he had a name which was known to everyone. He despised the
schoolboy approach to espionage, with its penchant for initials and
silly code words for obvious things. He was Brigadier James White, and
though she had worked for him for five years, and he knew her father
well, he had never called her anything but Miss. Graham.  She looked at
him steadily as he talked; he didn't frighten her because he had never
fooled her either.  She was used to men of his type; she neither admired
nor disliked them.  Like her, they had a certain job to do. Theirs was
not a profession suitable for weaklings. She had made her weekly report,
and the Brigadier was considering, making comments, listening to her
replies.  He sat back in his chair, drew on the cigarette and exhaled
the sickly smoke.

"So in your view, he's not too happy," he said. Davina nodded.

"That's natural enough; he's still disorientated by what he's done.  I
expected depression at this stage, but not restlessness."

"And he's restless," the Brigadier said.

"Yes.  He tries to hide it from me, but I know the symptoms."

"Not from personal experience, I hope?"  he asked pleasantly.

"I'm not a restless type," she said.

"I've proved that, I think."

"Of course."  The smile widened and then was gone.

"If he's restless that's a bad sign," he said.

"We'll have to think of something to make him happy.  You'll have to
think of something."  He paused for a moment, and then said casually,
"He's never asked for a woman.  Could that be the trouble?"

"He's had every opportunity," Davina said.

"He talks a lot about his wife and children."

"Eight months is a long time for some men," the Brigadier remarked.

"I'll see what I can do," she promised.

"Use your own judgement, Miss. Graham.  Don't worry about expense or
anything like that.  If he's dissatisfied, he won't give us what we
want.  Thank you very much."  He bestowed his meaningless smile upon
her, and bent over the papers on his desk. She went out.  As she walked
down the corridor she looked at her watch. It was 5.  48.  It would take
two hours to get down to Sussex at this time. Right in the middle of the
rush hour.

"Damn him," she said to herself.

"Why couldn't he see me earlier" Hello, Davina.  " She had almost passed
the man approaching her without noticing him. She looked up and stopped.

"Hello, Peter.  What are you doing here?  I thought you were living it
up in New York." He was a tall, dark-haired man in his late forties; he
wore spectacles and dressed untidily.  He could have been a
schoolmaster.

"So I was.  But I'm back for what's laughingly called a spell of home
duty. In other words they felt the job should go to a younger man."

"And did it?"  she asked.

"Come and have a drink; I'm on my way home," he said.

"I need a shoulder to cry on.  I'll tell you all about it." She
hesitated for a moment, calculating the difference it would make to the
drive down to Sussex if she spent an hour with Peter Harrington. Then
she saw the look in his eyes.  It was lonely and expectant.  He'd been
very good to her when she first joined.  Things had changed now. She was
on her way up, and he was on the way down.  A spell of home duty.  She
knew what that meant without seeing the need in his eyes. She had a
shoulder, and he was more entitled to cry on it than anyone else she
could think of at that moment.

"I'd love a drink," she said.

"Where shall we go?"

"There's that pub in Queen Anne's Gate," he said.

"It should be open by now.  Should be pretty quiet too.  We can talk."
Davina slipped her hand inside his arm.

"Yes," she said.

"We can."

"Vodka and tonic?"  he queried when she ordered.

"You never touched the hard stuff.  It was always wine or sherry. What's
got you into bad habits?"

"People change."  She smiled.

"I've learnt to like it."

"You haven't changed," he said, leaning towards her.  They had found a
table by a corner; the pub regulars were beginning to come in and
cluster round the bar.  Most of them were businessmen and secretaries
stopping for a drink on their way to the commuter stations or the long
crawl home by car.

"In fact," he said cheerfully, 'you've got better-looking.  " Davina
laughed.

"Don't be bloody silly," she said.

"All I've got is older.  But you're looking well.  Tell me about the
States. From what I heard you were doing very well out there."

"So I was," Peter Harrington said.

"I'd made a lot of contacts in the UN including a really top grade one
Rumanian, and another likely one in East Germany."  He broke off, and
discarded the false cheerfulness.

"I was doing damned well, Davy, and all of a sudden I start getting
sharp messages from London and then without a word of explanation I am
recalled.  I have to give my two contacts to my replacement.  That
really hurts; I take months of work and patience to get near them, and
then this new man will come sailing in and take over."

"Who is he?"  she asked.  He looked so downcast she repressed her
irritation at being called Davy.  Her parents intended calling their
eldest child David. It was just their bad luck she turned out to be a
girl.  All they could do was feminize the name.

"A fellow called Spencer-Barr...  Jeremy Spencer Barr It sounded so
bloody pouffy I thought here we go back to the old fairy days of Burgess
and MacLean.  But I was wrong.  Have you met him?"

"Yes," she said.

"As a matter of fact I have.  It was nearly five months ago.  He was
trying to get my job.  They thought a woman would do it better.  So he
got yours instead..."

"What did you think of him?"  he asked.

"Honestly, I'd like your view. Naturally I'm prejudiced.  And not just
because he replaced me.  It was the way he did it.  "

"I can imagine," she said quietly.

"I thought he was a conceited little pusher.  Sharp as a needle.
Unfortunately I also thought he was probably as clever as he said he
was.  I didn't like him, anyway.  He won't do as well as you."

"Thanks," he said.  He reached across and patted her hand. She had the
reputation in the department of being as tough as nails. Brilliant was
the other word used to describe her.  He had rather liked her when she
first joined.  She seemed a quiet girl, not very self-confident.  He had
always maintained that with make-up and a different way of doing her
hair she would be rather pretty.  But nobody had taken her on.  There
were too many attractive girls available for men to bother with one who
was discouraging to say the least.  But she had nice eyes; they were big
and green, and there was such an expression of sympathy in them that he
had to swallow hard.

"Thanks," he said again.

"I'll get you another drink."  He pushed back his chair and hurried to
the bar.  Davina didn't want the drink, but she understood that he
needed time to collect himself.  He pulled his chair a little closer to
hers when he came back.

"What are you going to do now?"  she asked him. He grimaced.

"I'm assigned to the Personnel Section," he said.

"In other words White has sent me to the bloody Battersea Dogs' Home.
Personnel- He added a mild obscenity under his breath.

"You'll get out of it," Davina said.

"You're too good to be wasted, Peter.  Just hang on and keep your eyes
open for a chance."

"Tell me about you," he said.

"I've followed your meteoric rise from afar.  You've got Sasanov,
haven't you?"

"Yes," she said.

"I've got him.  That was the job your friend Spencer-Barr was after."

"Not surprising," he said.

"It was a number one duty.  I always said you were a clever girl, Davy.
Congratulations.  Am I allowed to ask how it's going?" She shook her
head.

"No," she said.  '.  And don't call me Davy.  I promise not to call you
Pete in exchange.  " He grinned.

"Sorry.  I forgot you didn't like it.  Can I ask you what he's like, or
is that contravening the Official Secrets Act?"

"I don't think so," she said.

"Give me a cigarette, would you I'll get some in a minute thanks. What's
he like?  I've asked myself that nearly every day for almost five
months.  And I'm not near an answer.  He's a puzzling man, Peter.  He
doesn't fit into any category.  Sometimes I don't know whether he's
playing a game with me, or whether I'm playing one with him.  Only time
will tell.  "

"You'll win," he said.

"No man in his right mind could resist you."  He grinned at her, and she
laughed and shook her head.

"You'd be surprised how many have," she said.

"God, look at the time.

I've got to go.  " She stood up and held out her hand.  He took it and
drew her towards him.  He kissed her on the cheek.

"Thanks for the shoulder," he said.

"Let me know when you're coming up and I'll give you lunch."

"I will," she promised.

"And don't worry...  I'll take you up on that lunch!  Goodbye." He
watched her till she pushed through the door and vanished into the
street. She hadn't finished the second vodka, so he drank it down. Ivan
Sasanov.  she had come a very long way indeed in five years.

"Poor Peter."  She said it under her breath, and swung the Ford Cortina
out to overtake a lorry ambling in the middle lane of the motorway.
There wasn't much straight driving down to her part of Sussex, and she
made up what speed she could.  But she never exceeded the limit.  People
like her were not allowed to appear in court or attract publicity in any
way.

"Poor Peter," she said to herself again, 'what a rotten way to treat
him.  " After fifteen years of excellent service, the Brigadier had
tossed him into the department contemptuously known as the Battersea
Dogs' Home. His career was finished; in due time he would tactfully be
retired, or persuaded by the indignity of his position to resign.  It
was heartless and typical of the Brigadier.  People simply didn't matter
to him.  Only results. She frowned, thinking about the two important
contacts Peter Harrington had made in the UN.  One Rumanian and an East
German.  Months of patient work had begun to show promise, and he had
suddenly been recalled. Jeremy Spencer-Barr would replace him.

"Not just because he is replacing me.  It's the way he treats me."  She
could imagine how a man like Spencer Barr would trample Peter underfoot.
When they had lunch she would ask him for more details. Spencer-Barr was
a ministerial protege, everyone knew that.  He had arrived to work in
the lower echelons of the Department, flourishing a first-class honours
degree in economics and modern languages; he spoke French, German,
Russian, Hungarian and Swedish with fluency and had a strong working
knowledge of Arabic and Farsi.  His reputation as an academic was
brilliant; he had backed up his university career with a course in the
Harvard Business School, where he had graduated top of his year, and
served a four-year apprenticeship with one of the best-known merchant
banks in the City.  His uncle was an under-secretary in the Treasury,
and the Minister who had personally recommended him to Brigadier White
was his godfather and a close family friend.  It was only natural that
everyone who had come into the Department without such an august
introduction, and with a less dazzling previous record, waited for the
superman with suspicion and hostility.

She remembered him sitting in the Brigadier's office during the meeting
to decide who should take over Ivan Sasanov.  He was a rather small man,
slightly built, with a smooth face and smooth fair hair that was a shade
below his collar.  He had excellent manners, but there was an arrogance
about him which made him appear rude even when he was opening a door or
offering her a chair.  He had put his case for taking on Sasanov, and it
sounded very difficult to fault.  He had perfect Russian; he could
insinuate himself into his confidence; he knew Russia, having travelled
on a visa through Intourist with two separate parties in two years.  He
could play chess, which was Sasanov's hobby, and he was young enough not
to be alarming. Brigadier White had listened with his patient
half-smile, nodded and said! "Thank you, Spencer-Barr," and then turned
to Davina.

"Well, Miss. Graham, what qualifications would you have that are better
than Mr. Spencer Barr impressive list? Do you speak Russian?  "

"No," she had answered.

"You know I don't.  But Sasanov speaks English.

I can play backgammon, but my chess is so bad that he can't help beating
me. These are superfluous details, if you don't mind my saying so.  "
She had seen Spencer-Barr stiffen, but she went on without pausing.

"Three experts have been debriefing Sasanov since he arrived at the end
of August, more than three months ago.  In that time he hasn't given
anything of real importance.  Shutting him up with another man is just
continuing the pattern on a more intimate scale.  Which hasn't worked so
far.  I think a woman might catch him off guard." The Brigadier had said
nothing for a moment; his two immediate subordinates were present at the
interview. It was Spencer-Barr who spoke first.

"If I may suggest, sir, Sasanov isn't the type of man to take a woman
seriously.  He would only think she'd been sent for a quite different
purpose."

"He might indeed," the Brigadier said, and the two heads of department
nodded and said "Yes' together.  Davina saw the young man's hand come up
and smooth his glossy yellow hair.  He thought he had won, and the
gesture was irritatingly smug.

"Which strengthens Miss. Graham's case," the Brigadier said.

"She could well gain his confidence where even someone as talented as
you, Mr. Spencer-Barr, would fail.  One question, however.  If this
extra dimension to your duties should be required, would you object,
Miss. Graham?"

"I wouldn't welcome it," she said.

"But I would bear it in mind." They had all looked at her then, seeing
her objectively as a woman who might tempt the most valuable Russian
defector since Perekov.  Her mind, trained in the tortuous reasoning of
men like James White and his colleagues, followed the same route.  If a
beautiful or desirable woman had been introduced to Sasanov he would
instantly suspect that her purpose was to seduce him; he would avail
himself and tell her nothing. But Davina Graham didn't suffer om being
either beautiful or desirable. If he did sleep with her in the end, it
would be because she had involved him, and emotion, not sex, was the key
that unlocked the door to secrets.  The Brigadier could imagine a
strangely tantalizing situation developing between the clever,
intellectual woman and Colonel Ivan Sasanov of Russian Security. She and
Spencer-Barr had been dismissed and thanked, and the next morning she
was given the job.  The Brigadier's advice was simple.

"Get close to him, Miss. Graham.  By whatever means you can.  But
remember; you must never get involved with him yourself.  I don't favour
too close a relationship beyond the meeting of your mind with his.  But
if it should develop, which personally I think unlikely, I know you can
cope with it efficiently.  Good luck."

"Thank you," Davina had said, and shaken hands.  She couldn't decide
whether he'd said he thought a sexual relationship unlikely in order to
reassure her or to spur her on.  The word that really stung
was'efficiently'.  He obviously thought her as inhuman as he was
himself. But that was nearly five months ago, and the dull cold winter
months spent in the house in Sussex had gone by at the pace of a cripple
climbing stairs. It was April now, unusually mild and warm for the
beginning of an English spring.  The daffodils were out, waving their
yellow heads in defiance of a late frost, and the countryside was
burgeoning with fresh growth and buds eager to flower.  She had left the
short stretch of motorway behind and was nearing the turn-off towards
Haywards Heath. The house was a mere twenty minutes away.  She glanced
at her watch and saw that it was nearly ten to eight.  She had altered
the times of meals, delaying everything by half an hour.  Dinner was
moved from seven- thirty to eight; it gave them time apart after the
long walks in the afternoon and the ritual tea which Sasanov
appreciated, with a samovar and little Russian wheat cakes.  She always
wore something different in the evening, if only a long tartan skirt and
sweater or a pair of dark slacks.  It was a lifetime's habit for her,
and he seemed to adjust to it quite easily.  They had a drink before
dinner, and she made sure the wines were good and the food excellent.
And then after dinner they played backgammon, since he was too good at
chess to enjoy a game with a bad player, or they watched the television.
And they talked. Millions of words over the last four months and two
weeks, all of them recorded and sent away to be analysed. Experts
examined their conversations like miners searching pans of grit for
diamonds. She saw the red-brick wall on the left of the road and slowed
down before the gates.  A sign said "Halldale Manor Nursing Home'. There
was a man on the gates and, when she hooted, he came out and opened
them. She called out "Good evening' and drove on.  Halldale Manor was a
sprawling late Victorian mansion, its ugliness compensated for by
magnificent formal gardens; it had been requisitioned by the War Office
during the war, when it was used as headquarters for Southern Command.
Its clandestine role was to accommodate agents leaving for missions in
France from Bolney airport.  The Home Office had later bought the house
and its twenty acres of grounds; it had been used as a rehabilitation
centre for men whose nerves had been wrecked on active service, for the
pathetic brain damaged victims of high explosives. When it became a
nursing-home for the elderly in the late sixties, it was still the
property of the Home Office.  The separate wing occupied by Ivan Sasanov
had housed other important refugees from Eastern Europe for periods of
months while they were being debriefed. The wing was staffed by security
personnel, and the genuine geriatric patients in the main building
provided excellent cover for people coming and going.  The nursing-home
was run by a Department of Health doctor, with a former QARANC matron in
charge.  The wing where Davina Graham lived with Sasanov was accepted by
the outside nursing staff as reserved for the treatment of violent
patients. She drove round the sweep in the drive, and on to the back
entrance, marked "Ambulance'.  There were four garages reserved under
the sign" Doctor'; she parked the Cortina in one of them, locked it, and
walked across the yard to a gate set in the wall.  Her key unlocked it,
and it secured automatically when she pushed it shut.  The private
garden was surrounded by a red-brick wall; two lights set above the
entrance to the wing illuminated every step in the spring darkness.  She
rang the bell and a security man opened the door for her.

"Good evening, Miss. Graham."

"Good evening, Jim.  Everything all right?"

"Fine.  Gets chilly at night, though."

"Yes, it does.  Let's hope summer comes early."  He watched her cross
the hall and go up the stairs.  Nice legs, good figure.  Always polite.
About as approachable as the austere stone statues dotted round the
gardens.  He wondered how the'guest' upstairs got on with her or didn't.
He let his mind dwell on erotic possibilities, grinned to himself and
then forgot about it. He had been working at Halldale Manor for ten
years; his perquisites included a nice little house in the vihagc for
his wife and younger child, and the use of a car.  The pay was generous,
too.  He had long abandoned curiosity. The wing consisted of a
sitting-room, a small dining- room, five bedrooms and three bathrooms.
It was comfortably furnished in the style of a country hotel; it had its
own kitchen and domestic offices. Every room was electronically
monitored for conversation, and there were twoway mirrors in the bedroom
and bathroom assigned to'guests'.  The telephones passed through a
private switchboard, and all calls were recorded.  Davina went to her
own bedroom first, and rang through to the kitchen.

"He complained about the tea," she was told.

"I sent up vodka and lemon at six, as usual.  He asked for more, and the
decanter came down empty."

"Did he go out this afternoon?"  Davina asked.

"No.  Roberts went upstairs to check and he was just sitting, looking
out of the window.  Not in a good mood, Roberts said."

"Thank you," Davina hung up.  Everything Sasanov drank was monitored
like his appetite for food, the amount of exercise he took, the change
in his moods when he was left alone.  It had been a bad day. She looked
at herself briefly in the mirror, combed her hair so that it swept back
from her forehead; it was long and she hated it to be untidy. There
wasn't time to change out of her London coat and skirt. He'd had a bad
day.  She thought quickly and phoned down to the kitchen again.

"Keep dinner till I ring."  Then she hurried out of the room and down
the passage to the sitting-room.  She opened the door and saw him
leaning forward in a chair, his back towards her.  The outline was
tense.

"Hello," she said.

"I'm sorry I'm late.  The traffic was terrible."  He turned round to
look at her as she came in;

he didn't speak.

"I'd like a drink," she said.

"Let's have one together." She came and stood opposite him; there was a
fire burning in the grate. The room was warm, and brightened by vases of
daffodils she had arranged. She poured vodka into a glass for him, and
squeezed the little piece of cut lemon peel into it.  He didn't like
ice.  She filled her own glass with cubes to disguise the small amount
of vodka.  She handed him his drink.

"I'm sorry if you've been bored," she said.

"I did try to get back early."  He had strong, large hands, and the
little glass disappeared as he held it between them.  The piercing blue
eyes made her think of snow and bitter winds; he had a bleak, hard face
to match his eyes.

"My daughter keeps a canary," he said.  Drink had made his accent
thicker; his speech was a little too deliberate.

"She keeps it in a cage in our kitchen.  I want you to get a message to
her. Tell her to let it out...  Free.  I know how that canary feels."

"We can't communicate with your family," Davina said quietly.

"You know that...  Besides, you're not really like that canary, are you?
You wanted to come here.  Nobody kidnapped you." Ivan Sasanov leaned
back in his chair, and swallowed the glass of vodka.

"What did they say in London?  When am I going to get news" I told you,"
she said.

"Your family are perfectly well and safe.  No action has been taken
against them.  You've no need to worry.  You do trust me, don't you?  I
wouldn't lie to you about that." He laughed.

"You'd lie about anything if you were told to," he said.

"They could be in prison or dead, and you'd go on lying.  You are a
bloody woman." Davina smiled.

"If you say so...  and you're drunk."

"No."  He laughed again and shook his head.  He had fair hair which was
greying and he wore it cut close.

"No, I'm not.  When I'm drunk I sleep.  Like that!"  He snapped his
fingers.

"I have a little vodka inside.  It speaks to me."

"How poetic," she said.  She had experienced his moods and coped with
them. She knew them all, from depression to truculence, to his normal
swift intelligence parrying her own.  There were times when he was
relaxed, and she discovered that he had a keen sense of the ridiculous.
His mood was- now wavering between truculence and something more
disturbing; she responded lightly, hoping to divert the bad temper
aggravated by drink.

"What does it speak about?" He looked at her, and she saw suddenly that
he was very sober.

"Home," he said. She didn't register surprise, much less the dismay she
felt.

"Are you so unhappy here?  If you are, it must be my fault." He got up;
he was tall for a Russian.  He began to walk about, kicking the coals in
the fireplace, inspecting the decanter of vodka with disgust.  It was
nearly empty.

"It's not your fault," he said.

"You've done your best to make my time here pleasant.  You have a job to
do.

I'm a professional too, Vina.  I understand.  " Unlike Brigadier White
he used her Christian name; he couldn't pronounce it properly and
shortened it. He had pointed out to her once when they were out walking,
that it was an anagram of his own name.

"I'll try again," she said

"I promise.  I'll see if we can get some kind of message about them that
you will believe...  Now, won't you have some dinner?" She had become so
sensitive to him that she knew what he was doing without watching.  He
didn't eat well; he crumbled bread and drank wine, and when he looked at
her, he wasn't seeing her at all.  Restless that was how she had
described him to the Brigadier.  It was an under statement.  She felt
that for the first time since he defected to the West some kind of
breaking-point was near.  But which direction it took was her
responsibility.  If he turned sour, then his information would be
suspect, and he himself an expensive mistake.  Their relationship with
the Soviet Union was already cool, because Colonel Ivan Sasanov had
apparently vanished off the surface of the British Isles while on an
official visit to the Foreign Office.  Nobody was fooled, but it suited
both sides to keep up the fiction that everyone was looking for him for
the first few weeks.  The British explanation that he must have killed
himself, and that no doubt his corpse would be found in due time, saved
his own government the political embarrassment of admitting they'd lost
one of their top men. In the meantime, in exchange for the asylum he'd
arranged when still in Moscow, Sasanov had given the department details
of the Soviet Intelligence network operating in the Low Countries, and a
list of sympathizers in NATO, some of whom were already being watched.
Three months with his male interrogators had disclosed only what he was
prepared to give them; it was accepted by the Brigadier that Sasanov was
bargaining, and that the final deal had not been made.  So Davina
Graham, who didn't play good chess, had spent the last five months shut
up with him to draw from him scraps of information which could be
assembled.  The picture the experts put together could indicate much
more than he meant to disclose at this stage. They drank coffee at the
table.  He asked for brandy; she had reached a level of intimacy with
him when she could say, "Don't drink too much. Let's have a serious talk
tonight.  "

"Another one?  What is the subject this time- how did I manage to get an
agent into the Dutch Security Service?  We talked about that yesterday,
Vina.

I'm sick of saying the same things.  Again and again."

"I'm sick of hearing them," she said.

"I don't suppose you've thought of that.  So let's leave business till
tomorrow, shall we?" He peered into the brandy, holding the glass up to
the light.

"Whatever you say to me is business.  Everything is business, pretending
to be talk.  We are playing a game...  Tonight, I'm tired.

I want to drink this and then sleep.  " He challenged her with a look.

"Not talk."

"Not even about your family?"  she asked quietly.

"About your daughter and the canary and your wife, Fedya?  You spent
today on your own, with no one to play the game with you, as you call
it, and you've been thinking about them and worrying.  Haven't you?"

"I've been asking for news for weeks now," he said angrily.

"Nothing, nothing since the New Year one photograph taken in the street
to prove they're not arrested.  And you sit there, so calm and English
and hold out hope of news one day and then, so sorry, nothing.  A
bargaining counter, aren't they, my wife and child?  I'll think of
another agent's name to give you, two or three names, then perhaps I'll
see another photograph, eh?"

"That's not true," Davina said.

"Your family are watched day and night.  One contact from outside, and
they'd be taken in.  You know that, Ivan.  You know how Internal
Security works. Watching the dissidents and the Jews the way your
family's being watched now ' The art of debriefing wasn't all sweetness
and light.  She had needled him before, and with some success.  Now he
swore at her in Russian.  She had a sudden thought of Jeremy
Spencer-Barr, who would have understood.

"All right," she said.

"You miss them.  But you reckoned on that when you came over; you told
me you were disillusioned, that you'd lost faith in the Soviet system,
that you saw no point in your work, no point in going on..."  She
paused, and then said more quietly, "Have you forgotten all that?  Have
you forgotten Jacob Belezky?"

"No," he said.

"That's why I'm here; because of Jacob."

"And Scherensky and Bokov and Yemetova?"

"Yes!"  he shouted at her.

"Yes, because of them and what we were doing to them.  You think you
have the monopoly of conscience in the West? You think that Russians
aren't capable of moral courage or a love of justice?

Davina looked at him.

"You've proved they are," she said.

"What you did is just as brave as Scherensky and the others." He
gestured contemptuously at the room.

"This isn't Camp 10 in the Archipelago," he said.

"I'm in a cage, but a comfortable cage; I'm not getting drugs and shock
treatment to send me mad!  No, no, Vina you can't catch me that way.
Jacob didn't run away to the West."

"Jacob is dead," she reminded him gently.

"There's nothing he can do to help anyone.  But you can help the
others..."

"Perhaps I could help them more by going back," he said. Davina got up
from the table; she stepped on the bell hidden under the carpet for
Roberts to come and clear away.  She didn't want Sasanov to see her
face. She was right, the breaking-point was very near.  And it wasn't
going to be in the Department's favour. She shut the sitting-room door.
He stood with his back to her, looking at the dying fire.

"Put on another log," she said.

"It's cold in here." The fire blazed up; he lit a cigarette, and they
sat without speaking. He was leaning back, and the light of a standard
lamp placed near for reading shone on his face.  His eyes were closed
and he looked tired and grim. She couldn't back away.  That would show
weakness; the remark was either genuine or a new move in the game.  A
build-up to the final bargain with the Brigadier and the Foreign Office.

"Do you really want to go back?" He opened his eyes and raised himself
till he sat leaning forward.

"I see that worries you.  "

"Not in the least," she said.

"It's always been a possibility."

"A possibility that your people could send me back not that I went of my
own free will.  I could refuse to tell you anything more, and what I
have told you isn't important.  Not what you were hoping for all the big
stuff that's still in here."  He touched his forehead.

"I know when you're worried, because you have a little frown that comes,
and you don't know it.  I see it there now.  "

"What's made you think like this?"  she asked him.

"What's made you change your mind?  I leave you alone for an afternoon
and when I come back you're sulking and making stupid threats."  She
shrugged.

"You can go if you like.  You're no damned use to us as things are.
Anyway, you think it over.  I'm tired and I'm going to bed."

"Oh," Sasanov said, 'it's a big frown now.  Would you ever believe me if
I told you the truth?  " She was on her feet.

"I could try," she said.

"If you'd ever really trust me." Sasanov got up, threw his cigarette
into the grate.  She was a tidy person and the habit irritated her.

"We can't trust each other," he said flatly.

"But I can tell you, there are times when I could go mad in this place.
Today was a bad day.  I thought of F'edya and my daughter and the
canary. And I missed you." She felt the colour rising in her face.  He
was forcing her to look at him; forcing her to acknowledge the gap he
had made in her de fences

"I missed you."  There was no mistaking the way he had said it.  Not, "I
was bored, or worried, or had nothing to do', but "I missed you."  The
emphasis was on the last word.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I'm sorry I was away so long."  It sounded very lame.

"It's not your fault," the Russian said.

"Are we still quarrelling?"

"No," she said.

"Then come and sit down.  Don't go to bed yet." She didn't want to sit
close to him, but he held out his hand and, rather than take it, she
slipped into the seat beside him.

"Does he want a woman?"  The Brigadier's question nagged at her.  She
knew the answer; she had sensed it for some time.  She felt it again as
their bodies touched for a moment, and then drew away.  He was too male;
it frightened her.  In her imagination his sexuality held a tinge of
menace. She didn't dare think what he would be like as a lover.  She had
known only one man, and he was nothing like Ivan Sasanov.  If the
occasion arises, they had said at the interview, you'll know how to cope
with it. They had been wrong.  The occasion hadn't merely arisen;

in the last months it had lurked like an actor awaiting his cue in the
wings. She had seen it from the corner of her eye, and had resolutely
turned away. Sitting beside him in front of the fire, she felt the
brooding restlessness in him, and the unspoken question.  He did want a
woman; he wanted to forget himself, he wanted flesh and blood instead of
cool companionship.  She should have offered herself.  She should have
given him sex the way she provided toothpaste and cigarettes.  But it
was impossible.  She had gone to bed with a man she loved and had
suffered the ultimate humiliation rejection, a very special rejection.
She couldn't propose herself to Sasanov, and know that he only took her
because there wasn't anyone else.  She didn't want to think of him as a
man, naked, making love. She said very calmly, "Would you like someone
to spend the night with you? You must feel very lonely." She knew at
once she had made a terrible mistake.  The look of surprise on his face
changed to anger, and then contempt.  He sprang up from the sofa.

"When I want one of your department whores, I'll let you know!"  He
turned his back on her before she could answer, and slammed the door
after him.

"Oh, you fool," she said out loud.

"You tactless, stupid fool..." Five months had established between them
a relationship which had taken root. He had become dependent upon her;
the trust he denied had begun to exist between them.  Even their few
quarrels were a kind of intimacy.  All that was missing was the intimacy
of the night.  And she had panicked when she imagined what was coming
next, had ruined everything by offering him a paid whore, as if he was
suffering from toothache and needed a dentist.  She had never seen him
look so angry;

his contempt was bitter, and it stung her.

But no less than her contempt for herself.  She had been in his life for
nearly five months, had seen him go through the stages of homesickness,
anxiety for his family, uncertainty about the rightness of what he had
done, and had guided him gently to the point where the end was very
near.  Near to breaking, or near to committing himself wholly to the
West.  And he wanted more from her now than mere company. She hadn't
been able to cope with that need without losing her head. To provide him
with a woman would destroy their delicately balanced relationship; it
would put her back on the Brigadier's side. She got up, set the screen
in front of the fire, and went down the corridor to his room.  She
knocked on the door.  He called out and she came in.  He was in his
dressing- gown and it made him look younger.

"I came to say I was sorry," she said.

"I shouldn't have said such a thing to you.  It was very crude of me."
His expression was still set and angry.

"Why not?  You're supposed to keep me happy, aren't you?"

"That's not the point.  I don't know why I did it." He came towards her;
she was standing in the doorway, holding on to the handle.

"They suggested it in London, didn't they?  " He was close enough to
touch her.

"Yes.  Try to forget it, will you please?"

"I don't want someone like that," Sasanov said.

"And if I did, I don't want it arranged by you."  He leaned his hand on
the door as if to shut it.

"Do you understand that?  There are some men who don't like making love
to just any woman." She held the door open against him.

"I do understand.  I'd better go to bed myself."  She heard the
nervousness in her own voice.

"I'm tired, it's been a long day."  The pressure on the door ceased. He
stepped away from her.

"Good night," she said.

"Goodnight." Sasanov heard her steps fading down the corridor, and the
little click of her bedroom door closing.  He lit a cigarette and sat on
the edge of the bed.  He wasn't angry any longer.  He had never seen her
cool professionalism ruffled like that before.  Embarrassment suited
her;

she had blushed when he said he missed her, turned really red when she
came to his room.  He had stopped being angry because he believed her.
London had suggested she get him a paid woman.  She hadn't been told to
offer herself.  He was glad about that.  He smoked quietly, thinking
about her. For a long time she had puzzled him.  He knew exactly what
her official purpose was, but Davina Graham was a human puzzle.  She was
exceptionally clever, with an incisive intuitive mind, a woman who could
hold her place in any intellectual contest with a man.  A challenge to
someone like himself; they had been very clever to send a human puzzle
to a man who played chess. Yet she was sensitive and feminine in a shy
way.  The shyness appealed to him and her sexual remoteness intrigued
him.  Over the last five months he had grown very close to her.  And
very aware of her as a woman, instead of an opponent trying to win him
over to the West. Thinking about her diverted his mind; he dreaded the
night hours when the issues of his life confronted him, and he was
defenceless against his own doubts. When he left Russia it had seemed so
clear in his mind.  He had left his homeland and his family because the
death of his friend Jacob Belezky had broken his heart and the ties of
loyalty to his own political system.  As Davina had reminded him, he had
lost faith in the Soviet system and his part in maintaining it.  Jacob's
death was a culmination of doubt and revulsion which had been eroding
his ambitions and poisoning his life for the last four years.  He had
used his power to arrange his own escape; the months preceding his trip
to London had been endurable because he saw an end in sight. But he had
been one of the best Intelligence officers in the complex hierarchy of
the KGB.  He wasn't going to give his old enemies what they wanted until
he had time to plan ahead for himself and his family.  His family were
the bargaining-counter that he intended to exchange for the information
Brigadier White was waiting for.  Not a second-rate network in Norway or
a few spies scattered in the outer circles of NATO; they had merely
bought him time to think.  But the detailed plans for Soviet operations
against the oil kingdoms of the Middle East.  The longer he kept the
Brigadier and his people waiting, the stronger his position became.  Yet
now he wondered whether it was a' position that he really wanted.  Life
in the capitalist West:

plastic surgery, an assured income for life, a manufactured identity
among strangers, a home in a country so different from his own.  He
could still go back.  The propaganda value of his return in
disillusionment from the West would balance out the trivial information
he had given away.  The British wouldn't murder him or keep him if he
declared his intention to return.  They didn't operate like that.  They
even allowed their own traitors to escape. Unless he was a willing
collaborator, he was useless to White's Intelligence Service. He
finished the cigarette, got into bed and switched off the light.  He lay
in the darkness, thinking.  He was no longer sure of his own motives.
Longing for Russia plagued him, uncertainty about his wife and daughter
gave rise to paranoid suspicions that they were dead or arrested, and
the news was being kept from him.  If it hadn't been for the challenge
of Davina Graham he might already have decided to go back long before
the spring came.  He settled down to sleep, but his mind roamed
restlessly. He hadn't slept well for some weeks.  The luminous dial on
his watch showed a few minutes before three, when he drifted into an
uneasy doze, and he woke just after dawn.  He drew back the curtains to
watch the sun rise, and opened his window to the joyously singing birds.
The sound made him heavy and sad. Another day walking with her through
the grounds.  Eating lunch, talking, reading the English newspapers. The
evening creeping over him like a shroud. He was dressed and pacing the
garden in the dew, when Davina looked out of her bedroom window and saw
him.  She put a call through to the Brigadier at his private number, and
woke him an hour before his breakfast.  He was irritable and
uncooperative.

"You told me this yesterday if you're worried I'll send someone down."

"I am worried," she said.

"I want to try an experiment.  He needs to get away from here: he's
going crazy shut up with me all the time.  As I told you, last night he
was talking about going home.  And I don't think it was a bluff.  Will
you give me permission to take him home for the weekend?"

"What?  Good God, Miss. Graham, what an extraordinary idea!  Why should
that amuse him?"

"Because he needs freedom," she said.

"He knows nothing about life in England.  He feels lonely and cut off. I
think it might work.  He'd trust me more if the visit was a success. Let
me try it.  He won't go off; he's nowhere to go to.  You can have a man
down there if you want him watched." There was a pause.

"How will you explain him to your family?"

"Leave that to me," she said.

"Can I go ahead?"

"Yes."  He sounded more reasonable.

"Yes, if you think it's the right thing.  Give my regards to your
father."

"Thank you, sir, I will." She hurried down to breakfast.  Sasanov was
sitting at the table drinking coffee and smoking.

"Good morning," he said.  She saw the puffy skin under his eyes and the
look of fatigue.

"Did you sleep well?"

"No."

"I saw you out in the garden very early this morning."

"I needed fresh air."

"You need more than that," she said.

"You need to get away from here.

I'm going to arrange it after breakfast.  "

"Harry, Davina's coming down this evening.  She's bringing some man with
her." Harold Graham looked like a retired naval officer; he had the
bright blue eyes and weathered skin of men who have spent years at sea.
The sea had left its imprint upon him, as clearly as the sky subtly
changes the men who fly. Harry Graham was a naval'type' and old
gardening clothes didn't alter the aura of the quarterdeck he carried
with him.  He was a handsome man, not very tall, but very upright.  He
had a keen, humorous face, and a marvelous simplicity which ignored
changing values in a changing world. He had been married for
thirty-seven years, and had enjoyed a satisfying, happy marriage, which
had never been threatened by the occasional love affair when he was away
during the war.  He lived an active life in retirement, devoted to
charitable work and the running of the village where they lived. He was
on the Parish Council, read the lesson in the Anglican church, was
president of the local British Legion, and spent two days a week in
London working for the Ex-Services Mental Health Association, Naval
Section.  He had some private money apart from his pension, and was
proud of the fact that they were able to keep their house and garden
properly.  His wife was standing on the terrace outside the
drawing-room, shading her eyes from the bright sunlight with one hand.
She was taller than he was, and very thin; she showed traces of great
prettiness, with fine grey eyes and clear features.  Her face was webbed
with tiny lines, and her fair hair was nearly white.  She was still so
surprised by her daughter's telephone call that she repeated the
message.

"Davina's coming down...  with a man."

"Is she really?"  Captain Graham said.

"It's rather last- minute, isn't it?"

"No, darling no more than Charley.  She rang last night."

"Yes, all right, so she did."  He came to her and put his arm round her
for a moment.

"I'm really looking forward to seeing her, aren't you? She's such fun. I
wonder what she's been up to, naughty girl.  "

"Goodness only knows," his wife said.

"Who do you suppose this man is, that Davina's bringing down?  She said
he was a Pole."

"A Pole what on earth is she doing with a Pole?  And why does she have
to bring him here?  What time did Charley say she was arriving?"

"In time for drinks," Betty Graham said.  They walked into the house
together.

"It was very hot out there," he said.

"We're going to have a good summer.  Everything's coming out ahead of
itself. We'll have to watch out there isn't a sharp frost.  We'd lose a
lot of bedding plants if we got a frost now.  I feel like a gin and
tonic. We've got time before lunch, haven't..we?" His wife smiled at
him.

"Since I'm doing the cooking, of course we have.  I'll get some ice."
Later, while they were finishing their drinks, Betty Graham said gently!
"Harry darling, promise me you'll be nice to Davina." His eyebrows rose,
and he registered a pained surprise.

"I'm always nice to her.  Why shouldn't I be?"

"Because you much prefer Charley," his wife said.

"But I don't show it," he maintained.

"I just find Davina rather difficult."

"She was never any trouble," his wife reminded him.

"It can't have been easy being Charley's sister."

"Well, yes, but she never made an effort, did she?  And look at the fuss
she kicked up when Richard broke it off.  Didn't come near us for over a
year.  Who is this fellow she's bringing along don't tell me she's going
to take up with a Pole.  "

"We've got to be very nice to him too," Betty said firmly.

"It would be marvelous if she got married and settled down.  I wish she
wasn't so tied up in that dreary Ministry job.  These career girls never
seem to get married." He gave a mischievous laugh.

"I should think you'd had enough weddings with Charley," he said.

"You're hopeless," his wife said.

"You'd forgive Charley anything."

"I think it's time Davina forgave her too," he said.

"After all Richard was no damned good.  Perhaps it's a good thing
they're coming both together.  Did you tell her Charley would be here?"

"Yes, I did," Betty Graham said.

"She said she didn't mind; she said she'd be glad to see her, actually."

"Then let's hope it all goes off well.  I don't want the weekend spoilt.
They don't come down that often."

"No," she said.

"I'm sure it will be all right.  Now finish that drink and we'll have
our lunch.  I arranged for Mrs. Dixon to come in and cook over the
weekend.  I don't want to spend my time in the kitchen." After lunch,
she went into the garden with the wicker trug over her arm, and cut
flowers to put in the girls' bedrooms.  Long sprays of forsythia arched
among the daffodils; she was clever with flowers and had always arranged
them.  Even when she was alone in the house and Harry was at sea during
the war, Betty Graham kept the vases filled, as if she were preparing
for him to walk through the door.  Their only son had been killed in the
Fleet Air Arm, long after the war had ended.  He was only twenty; that
was when she began to look old.  They had grieved, she and Harry.
Arranging a big bowl of forsythia in Davina's bedroom, Betty Graham
remembered how differently her two daughters had shown their feelings at
their brother's death.  Davina was twenty-four, and Charley seventeen.
The love child of the immediate post war, when she and Harry took up
their life again, not expecting that she would have a pregnancy at
forty-two Charley had wept and clung to each of them in turn; they had
been a trinity of sorrow, she and Harry and their younger daughter.
Davina had looked grey for weeks, but they never saw her cry.  She had
never shown her feelings; that was the reason she and Harry found it
difficult to love her as much as Charlotte.  She smiled quietly,
thinking how Charlotte had been impossible for the little girl to say;
she had shortened her name, and she was Charley to everyone who knew
her.  What a pity that Davina was so different.  And then when Richard
asked her to marry him, and she seemed so happy and outgoing at last
that had been terribly difficult for them all.  She put the memory aside
and carried a vase of flowers into her younger daughter's room. It would
be lovely having them together for the weekend.  She did hope the Pole
would fit in.  Brigadier White didn't like going to see the Home
Secretary.  He avoided it whenever possible, sending a deputy to make
the routine report.  He considered the incumbent of the principal post
at the Home Office to be a liberal intellectual, who disapproved of him
and his department and frustrated him when he most needed support. In
White's opinion he was soft.  He was an abolitionist, which the
Brigadier thought ridiculous, with the crime rate, and especially
violent crime, murder, armed robbery and terrorism, on the increase
every year.  White believed in death as a deterrent.  It was also much
cheaper to hang a man than to keep him for twenty years at the
taxpayers' expense.  His department would have welcomed a tenth of the
subsidy spent on locking up bombers and child murderers in top security
jails. This time he decided to see the Home Secretary himself because
there had been a sudden stream of irritating notes from the Foreign
Office about Russian protests at Britain's failure to find Sasanov, or a
body, since it was asserted he must have killed himself.  Nobody was
serious, of course;

the KGB knew perfectly well that Sasanov was under his protection. They
were just trying to be awkward, and stir up trouble for White. The Home
Secretary was not sympathetic to White's clandestine operations.  He
objected to laws being broken in the name of security, and he carried
his obsession about personal freedom so far that White had to mount some
of his less savoury operations very carefully.  There was a lot the Home
Secretary didn't know, but there was no way White could have concealed
Sasanov. The defection of someone so important was of interest to the
Prime Minister, who asked the Home Secretary for information on what was
happening, so that he in turn asked White.  Now that the Foreign Office
was meddling, because of the Russians, White felt that positive action
was needed.  Unfortunately he couldn't implement it without the Home
Secretary's agreement. He drove along Whitehall in his blue Flat, with a
Special Branch man at the wheel; he used different cars during the day,
and never travelled to his office or his home by a regular route.  He
was a prime target for terrorists. Although he took precautions, he
wasn't frightened.  He had never been afraid of anything in his life,
and didn't understand or sympathize with anyone who was.  He hastened
into the Home Office, and sped up in the lift to the first floor and the
Home Secretary's office. He was shown into the room, which was empty. He
strolled over to the windows and looked out onto Horse Guards Parade,
flanked by the elegance of the old Palace of Whitehall.  As a serving
officer, James White had trooped the colour of his regiment on the
sovereign's official birthday.  It was an occasion that moved and
thrilled him, with its pageantry, colour and superb precision.  All the
more dramatic now, since the monarch was a queen.  He was a man for whom
his country meant the traditions implicit in his regiment, the Cold-
stream Guards, regarded as the oldest-established regiment of the Line
and founded by General Monck who had helped bring Charles the Second
back to his murdered father's throne. James White had been a dedicated
soldier, who retired early because his skills were needed in the
Intelligence Service, at that time demoralized by lack of funds, the
shattering scandal of Philby's treachery, and the prevailing political
climate that considered spies and the Secret Service as outmoded and
rather immoral.  White had changed the image. He didn't try to court the
politicians, but he kept on the best of terms with the Treasury. The
Foreign Office had been hypersensitive to investigation on even the most
harmless level after Burgess and MacLean.  He had proceeded with tact
outside his department, and with total ruthlessness inside it.  He knew
how to get the best out of people by being courteous and unruffled, and
pitiless if they failed. White had known Davina Graham's father because
they were members of the same club, and their family backgrounds had
merged at one point through cousins marrying.  He had employed Davina as
his secretary because he knew that there was no question of a security
risk there. And he had seen her true potential.  She was far too clever
to waste her time being a good secretary. Taking Sasanov to Marchwood
for the weekend showed imagination and courage. He admired her for the
idea, but he hoped for her sake that it didn't go wrong.  He heard a
distant flushing sound, and smiled. Home Secretaries went to the
lavatory like lesser men; there was a separate bathroom and lavatory
adjoining the office.  White was sitting in an armchair, looking
relaxed, when the Home Secretary came in. They shook hands, and
exchanged banalities about the weather. Neither man was at ease with the
other; a truce existed, but the threat of open war was always there. The
Minister was an academic who had come late into politics. He was a
gentle man, steeped in the humanities, trusted completely by the Prime
Minister who valued his loyalty and integrity in public life. These
virtues were said to offset his dislike of authoritarian methods, and a
penchant towards mercy.  He offered the Brigadier a cigarette, and took
his place behind the desk. The Brigadier was a type of man he abhorred.
Hard, ambitious, lacking in scruple, capable of anything.  The Minister
had once heard James White described as a man of honour, and had almost
lost his temper with the speaker. There was an imperialist attitude in
the Brigadier's approach to problems that the Home Secretary found not
only offensive, but positively dangerous He settled into his leather
chair and took up a defensive position.

"Could we come to the point of your visit, Brigadier?  I don't want to
seem discourteous, but I have a hellish morning and a dozen people to
see."

"I appreciate your giving me the time, Home Secretary," James White
responded.

"Actually it's concerned with the Soviet defector, Ivan Sasanov."

"Oh?  What's happened to him?"

"Happened why nothing.  He's in excellent health and enjoying a stay in
our place in the country.  I assure you, he's our guest, not a
prisoner."  He allowed himself a slight sneer.

"He did come to us of his own accord."

"So you informed me."  The answer was brisk.

"Which was about eight months ago, as I recall.  I've had interim
reports since then, to pass on to the PM.  But so far he seems to be
marking time. You led me to believe that he was the most important
Soviet official since Perekov to come over to the West.  Otherwise it
hardly seems worth while to have antagonized the Russians to the extent
that we did.  Isn't it time we had some results?" The Brigadier kept the
half-smile on his face; his eyes gleamed with dislike for a second or
two, long enough to convey it to the man opposite to him.  He called him
a contemptuous obscenity in his mind, and answered with infuriating
patience, as if he were explaining something simple to someone unusually
stupid.

"Sasanov is even more important than Perekov.  He was the coordinating
officer in charge of that section of the Soviet Ministry of External
Affairs that deals with the Middle East.  His section is, of course, the
KGB.  Soviet activity in that part of the world has increased in terms
of expenditure and agents in operation by fifty percent since last year
since the overthrow of the Shah.  They are aiming at the oil sheikdoms,
Home Secretary.  And Sasanov knows the details of the operation being
mounted against Kuwait and Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates."

"Then why hasn't he told us?"  the Minister demanded.

"Because he wants to be in the best possible bargaining position before
he plays a hand of such importance.  Defection is not an easy thing to
adjust to; it entails a great deal more than catching a taxi and
presenting yourself at Scotland Yard, asking for asylum.  The
psychological upheaval is acute; it takes months before a man like
Sasanov can orientate himself to betraying his own country.  Properly
betraying, anyway.  He's given us a few snippets of information; enough
to whet the appetite, so to speak.  He has been acclimatizing, as we
call it.  Settling in, coming to terms with himself and the decision
he's made.  You can't hurry this process; I'm sure you'd be the last
person to authorize forceful methods to get the information."  He gave
his opponent a cool stare. The Home Secretary said freezingly, "No such
permission would ever be given. In any circumstances.  I hope that's
understood."

"Of course, of course, it is," White protested.

"Apart from which it would be criminally stupid.  The kind of
information we will get from Sasanov in due course- and we will get it,
I am quite confident needs to be interpreted by him over a period. That,
my dear Home Secretary, is where his real worth lies.  He knows the
minds of our opponents, he can gauge their feel for a situation as it
changes hourly.  That was Philby's value to the Russians.  He knew the
people at home because he'd been one of them for years.  He's still
interpreting Western Intelligence for them."

"Yes.  I know this of course; but at least I can say to the Prime
Minister that you are confident of enlisting Sasanov as an active
adviser to our own Service.  No indication of time, I suppose?  It would
help to have some guide..."

"Weeks," the Brigadier said affably.

"Not months.  I have a very talented operative with him at the moment.
I'm delighted with her progress."

"Her?  Do you mean you've used a woman to debrief him?"

"I have indeed," White said.

"Women have proved very able in my service.  And now, after all, we have
a lady in Downing Street.

"He gave the Minister a sly look, daring him to disparage the female
sex. He shifted in his seat and said briskly," But I'm wandering from
the purpose of my call.  Briefly, the Russians have been making a fuss
through their Embassy.  It's just tiresomeness on their part, because
they know perfectly well Sasanov is with us. But they're complaining
because while our people insist he killed himself, we haven't produced a
body.  I would like your authority to take the necessary steps to
satisfy them.  "

"You're going to find a body?  How can you?" The Brigadier gave his
little bark of a laugh.  He was thoroughly enjoying himself.

"Oh, we're not going to kill anybody!  Oh, lord no.  I just want to be
able to show them a dead man and keep them quiet.  All I need is
authorization to satisfy the local health authority if we hear of
someone suitable.  That's all."

"I'll send you the necessary memo," the Home Secretary said.  He pushed
back his chair.

"Now, I'm afraid I have someone waiting."  His expression indicated
chill distaste. The Brigadier thanked him for his time and help, and
walked out of the office with a springy step.  He would get the memo,
and it would be safely filed away.  No politician would ever be able to
accuse him of acting without authorization.  Not on a trivial thing like
substituting a corpse for a living man.  Another make of car was waiting
at the entrance; he jumped in, and told the driver to take him to his
office. There he telephoned an old friend at the Special Branch of
Scotland Yard.  He invited him to lunch. Later that afternoon, sniffing
a good Armagnac, the SB man asked the Brigadier what he meant by a
favour. White was rubbing a cigar close to his ear, judging the tobacco
by the crackle that it made.  The old myth about the best Havanas being
those rolled by the Cuban girls between their thighs still died a slow
death among the older generation.

"I need a corpse," he said.

"Damn good these.  Try one."

"Too strong for me," the policeman said.

"I'll stick to my cheap cigarettes." They both chuckled.  Long
association and many off- colour deals had brought them to a curious
condition of trust and friendship.

"Cheap?  There's nothing cheap about you, Tim.  You've cost me enough at
times!"  James White bit off the end of his cigar and lit it.  He
despised the fiddling tool for cutting them.  Better men than he would
ever be had used their teeth.

"How much am I going to cost you this time, then?"  The man puffing on
his cigarette was a professional policeman, risen through ability from
the ranks then on to the branch of (he CID that coped with terrorism,
treason and subversion.  He was a pleasant man, with a bluff sense of
humour and a comfortable middle-class background.  He could have been a
businessman, a broker, a solid citizen with a solid career.  But like
James White, he was above all a true professional.  Some men, he had
said once, when they were lunching together and working out a
particularly difficult security operation where his branch's help was
needed, some men were hunters by nature.  He and the Brigadier belonged
in that category.  They couldn't help themselves.  It was in the blood.
He was also a patriot, and he used the word without embarrassment.  To
his colleagues in the Yard, criminals were the enemy.  Or the quarry. He
was honest enough to admit the ambivalence.  To him, the enemy was the
subversive, the terrorist, the traitor.  There was no compromise, no
excuse.

"Seek and destroy."  That was his own directive to his highly trained
men. He admired and liked James White.  They were akin. The Brigadier
shook his head.

"Nothing, I hope, Tim.  I need a corpse, that's all.  Shouldn't be too
difficult.  People are always dying."

"What kind of corpse?"  he asked.  The Armagnac was very good indeed.
There was a bite to it he appreciated.

"Natural causes, I suppose?"

"No," the Brigadier said, pleased to have forestalled him.

"Drowning. Been in the sea for some time.  "

"Ah," the policeman said.

"Difficult to recognize, eh?  I see."

"No fingerprints," James White said.

"That's essential.  No hands.  The rest doesn't matter.  We can fudge
that. But fingerprints we don't want.  Give it a thought, will you, Tim?
I'd be most grateful.  I've got our friend at the Home Office breathing
down my neck."  He finished the brandy. His companion scowled.

"Oh, that bugger!  Do you know he's the most hostile Home Secretary
we've had in twenty years!  One thing we'll never bloody well forgive
was quashing the conviction on that little rat Jim French."

"The man who kicked a P C to death in the Walthamstow riots?"  the
Brigadier said.

"I remember that very well."

"We knew he was guilty.  We bloody well knew it.  He was seen laying
into our man when he was on the ground.  Three separate witnesses saw
him do it.  But they wouldn't identify him.  Too scared.  Two were
women, living in council flats.  The other witness was a policeman.  And
he quashed the conviction on a technicality.  Don't worry, James, this
won't cost you anything.  I'll get some inquiries going when I get back
to the office.  Drowning victim.  Give me the details."

"Male," the Brigadier said.

"About forty-five.  Five feet ten inches tall, and not a nigger."  They
laughed together at the joke.

"Don't worry," the policeman said again.

"We'll find you something."

"Salisbury Plain I love this part of England," Davina said.  She glanced
sideways at Sasanov.  He was looking out of the car window; she was
relieved to see signs of interest.

"It's rather beautiful," he said.

"So much space.  I've always thought of England as a little, cramped
place."

"Some of it is," she said.

"That's part of its charm.  And it changes so rapidly; you go from one
county to the next and everything's different- the countryside, the
villages, the architecture.  Red brick in the South, lath and plaster
and black beams in the Midlands, yellow stone in the Cotswolds, grey
stone in Oxfordshire. Pebble and flint farther north, thatch in the
South-East.  You get rolling hills and dead flat country, and even
mountains, a few hundred miles from each other.  I never get tired of
England," she said.

"You sound like a Russian talking about Russia," Sasanov said.

"Except that to us, it's thousands of miles.  A whole continent; so many
races, colours, cultures, all in the borders of Mother Russia.  Your
little country is like a doll's village, compared to mine." She smiled
and said, "But the weather's better.  You must give us that."

"You've never spent a summer on the Black Sea," he answered.

"Nor a winter in Siberia," she countered.

"There's Stonehenge up on the right.  Would you like to stop and look at
it?"

"And what is Stonehenge?"

"An ancient ruin," she said, slowing down.

"I used to come here as a child.  There's always a wind blowing." They
parked behind a row of cars, with brightly painted coaches catering for
tours.  There was a garish souvenir- shop selling postcards, coloured
slides and plastic models of the circle of great stones.  They joined a
group of people filing round the rope barrier which separated them from
the inner ring.

"It looks much bigger; from the road it was small.  You're right,"
Sasanov said, buttoning his jacket.

"There is a wind."

"The Druids worshipped here," Davina said.  Her hair was breaking free
of its pins and beginning to fly in wisps round her face.

"But the people who erected the stones were much, much earlier.  It was
two circles originally, but the inner one is all that's left.  You see
that big stone in the centre there?" He followed her pointing finger. He
nodded.

"Yes.  I see it."

"That's the altar stone," Davina said.

"The rays of the rising sun touch the exact centre of it.  That's when
the Druids offered human sacrifice to the sun.  They killed the victims
on the stone.  "

"There's a reconstruction of it, over there," Sasanov said.

"And a view from the air.  It's very symmetrical for something so
primitive."

"Yes, it is," Davina answered.

"It's also the exact centre of England;

all lines north, south, east and west converge on this spot.  Some
people believe it is evidence of spacemen landing like those places in
Central America.  Photographed from the air there are definite lines and
patterns that aren't accidental.  "

"Don't tell me," Sasanov said, 'that you believe that.  "

"I don't know," she said.

"But I feel something here some kind of energy."

"It's the wind, and the space all round you," he said.

"It's an illusion.  There is no significance to this, it's just a
primitive temple.  But it's unusual.  I'm glad I saw it."

"It's such a pity you can't go any closer," Davina steered him back to
the car park.

"When I used to come here there weren't any barriers. You could walk all
round it; I even sat on the altar stone.  People came up here to watch
the sun rise and see the first rays lighting on the stone.  Now the
great British public just wants to carve their initials all over it.  "
Sasanov stopped.

"I would like a postcard," he said suddenly. Davina stared at him.

"Would you?  Really?"

"Yes, I would.  But I have no money."

"I've got plenty," she said.

"Come on then, you choose what you want." She watched him deciding on
which view to take; he seemed more relaxed than she had known him to be
in five whole months.

"This one," he said.

"It will remind me of you." It was a photograph of the sunrise, with a
brilliant shaft of light touching the centre of the altar stone.

"You must have been a bloodthirsty child," he said.

"What did you imagine when you sat there?"

"Oh, I don't know.  I suppose I tried to imagine what it had been like
with some terrifying Druid standing over you with a knife.  I believe
they sacrificed virgins, male and female.  It's horrible, if you think
about it."

"Yes, but it's very common.  It answers a human need, to satisfy an
angry god...  And after all, if the sacrifice has any value, it must be
pure." She didn't answer, but the adjective struck her as odd.  So he
regarded virginity as a virtue.  Pure.  it was a strangely old-fashioned
word, seldom heard applied to anything but consumer goods.  Pure wool,
pure silk, pure skin food.  She hadn't thought of a pure person since
she grew up, and the Christian ethic joined the fairy stories.  It was a
pointer to remember. Sasanov was a prude.  Insights like that brought
his personality more into focus; when you could see the personality in
three dimensions, the task of winning him over became easier. She hummed
a little tune to herself as they drove.  It was a beautiful spring
afternoon; she felt confident and cheerful.  It was a feeling she
associated with going to Marchwood, the house where she had been born
and grown up. Like coming back at the end of the school term, there was
a flutter of excitement as they reached the turn-off that had since
become the motorway, and Marchwood village was signposted as three miles
away.  She had never told anyone how she felt about the house; it seemed
pointless, because it was going to be left to her brother, and then when
he was killed, she was sure her father had left the house to Charley.
Because of course her sister didn't make a secret other love for the
house. She'd never touched the walls and talked to it as if it were a
living entity.  Everything Charley felt was very public.  Not that she
minded now, Davina thought, and didn't realize that she had stopped
humming the little song.  What would a single woman do, rattling about
on her own in a house that size Charley was certain to marry again.  She
could regard her family with affection, understanding and objectivity.
She had her own life, and she didn't need them any more.  And because
she didn't need them, she would be glad to see them, and make the best
use possible of the weekend.  She wanted the man beside her to relax, to
drop his guard.  Not to think of her as an opponent.

"We're nearly there," she said.

"I think you'll like my mother and father.  My sister's going to be
there too."

"I must remember to behave like a Pole," he said.

"Don't worry about that," she said.  Just be yourself.  I told them you
were a trade secretary at the Embassy.  We met at a party in January
remember that.  They won't ask questions; they're not that sort of
people.  "

"Don't they mind communists?"  he asked.

"They don't look on the Poles as communists."  She smiled a little.

"Not since the Polish Pope; that's made them quite respectable."

"And what is your sister like you've never talked about her before."

"My sister well, you'll see for yourself...  It's just up here;

there's the lane.  " She didn't realize how much her expectancy showed
on her face as they turned up the country road.  There was a clear,
fresh scent of leaves and wild flowers, a quiver in the air that she had
always associated with spring and Nature's cycle of rebirth. They drove
through a small gateway set in a wall; on either side of the narrow
drive, the grass verges were a rippling wave of yellow daffodils.
Sasanov was reminded suddenly of the Crimea, where the spring flowers
were a carpet of colour.  They rounded a slight bend and came to the
front of the house.  It was a beautiful Queen Anne house;

its brickwork glowed rose pink in the sunshine.  A deep green magnolia
climbed up one wall, its leaves like shining spears, with the pregnant
buds of blossom hiding among them.  A weathervane on top of the
eighteenthcentury stable block stirred in the breeze. Davina glanced
into the driving mirror, and exclaimed, "My God, look at my hair!  It's
all over the place She found a comb in her bag and began dragging her
hair back from her forehead, pinning it into place. Sasanov was going to
say it suited her better loose.  It was a dark red that was almost
brown, and the severe up swept line from the forehead made her look
older.

"There," she said.

"That's better." He didn't say anything.

"They must be round the back of the house my mother's dog usually bounds
out when he hears a car." He took their two cases out of the boot, while
Davina went and opened the front door.

"Leave them in the hall," she said.

"We'll go through to the garden."

"I feel strange," he said suddenly. She stopped and turned to him.

"Why?  Why strange?"

"Because I haven't left my cage for so long.  I haven't talked to
people." She had avoided physical contact with him before.  On the few
occasions when they touched, it made her nervous.  Now she put her hand
on his arm.

"You're out of the cage," she said.

"And talking to other people is just what you need.  Come on." He could
see the little group out on the terrace, through the windows at the far
end of the hall; and then Davina had opened a door and was walking out
into the garden.

"Darling we didn't hear you arrive."  He saw the tall, white-haired
woman kiss her, and the smaller figure of a man get out of his garden
chair, and give her a quick peck on the cheek.

"This is Pavel - I won't try and pronounce the rest of it.  My father,
Captain Graham; my mother."  He shook hands with them, and then he heard
Davina say behind him, "Hello Charley.  How nice to see you...  Pavel,
my sister, Charlotte Ransom." He turned round; hearing the man's name he
had expected to see a man. She was beautiful.  There was no other word
to describe her; pretty, attractive, glamorous, these were commonplace
adjectives, applicable to many women. But she was beautiful.  He shook
hands with her.  She smiled, and the effect was warm as sunlight.  Hair
like Davina's and yet not like, because it was the vibrant colour of
Spanish mahogany, heavy and shining, falling naturally to her shoulders.
Enormous grey eyes, framed in eyelashes that should have been false but
were her own.  A face that at first sight was classical, every feature
in harmony, and that changed when she smiled, becoming sensuous and
challenging.  She wore trousers and a shirt, with a sweater knotted
round her waist by the sleeves.  He noticed gold chains round her neck,
and a wide gold ring on her left hand.

"Hello," she said.

"Isn't it a lovely evening?  Let's sit down, shall we?" He hesitated,
and Davina said, "Shall we take our cases up first?"

"No dear," Mrs. Graham said.

"You can do that later.  We're having a drink out here, before it gets
too chilly.  Do sit down, Pavel.  What would you like?"

"I'll get it," Captain Graham said.

"Davina?"

"Vodka and tonic, please." He leaned towards Sasanov.

"I'm sorry I don't know your proper name. But if my daughter says she
can't pron ounce it, then I'm damned sure I wouldn't be able to!  So
we'll all call you Pavel.  What would you like to drink?  "

"Vodka," Sasanov said.

"No tonic, thank you." He found himself sitting beside the sister; even
in the garden he could smell the scent she wore.  It was heavy and
provocative; she leaned back, her hands clasped behind her head.  The
attitude showed off small, perfect breasts.

"What are you doing in England?"

"I'm at the Embassy," he answered.

"I am a trade secretary."

"Isn't that supposed to mean you're a spy?  I thought all trade
secretaries were really spies."  She laughed, and it covered an
embarrassed silence.

"Really, Charley Mrs. Graham protested.

"No," Sasanov responded.

"The commercial attaches are the spies.  Not the trade secretaries.  I'm
very harmless." There was a general laugh; he didn't look at Davina.

"How long have you been in England?"  Charley Ransom asked him.

"A year," he said.

"I like England very much."

"And are you and Davina old friends?"  The beautiful grey eyes were
twinkling, as if there were something risque about being a friend other
sister's.  The charm was coming at him in waves, like the scent.

"Not very long," he said.  He wished that Davina would interrupt the
flow of questions.  But she was talking to her mother.

"Do you live near here?"  He took the initiative away from her.

"I live in London," she said.

"I've got a flat in Portman Place.  You must come round and have a
drink."

"That's very kind," Sasanov said. She had begun to play with one of the
gold chains round her neck; a large medallion hung on it, engraved with
the Aries sign of the zodiac. She had beautiful hands, with long,
painted nails.  The wedding-ring was a broad band, set with a small
diamond.

"Charley," Captain Graham said, "You haven't got a drink Sasanov
glimpsed the look of excessive fondness that he exchanged with his
daughter.  He was glad of the interruption; it relieved him from Charley
Ransom's questions.  He looked across at Davina, finished his drink
quickly and stood up.

"I will take the cases upstairs," he said.

"I'll show you your room."  Davina's mother walked in front of them. He
heard the father and younger daughter laughing at some private joke as
they went inside the house. The stairs were narrow; he followed Davina,
carrying the two cases. Mrs.  Graham opened a door on the landing.

"This is your room," she said to him.

"The bathroom is across the passage there.  Davina darling, you're in
your old room, of course." Davina came up to Sasanov.

"I'll take my case," she said. He held on to it.

"No.  It's heavy.  I'll carry it for you." He was surprised by her
bedroom.  It was a pretty room, with fresh flowers and a narrow bed;
there were books and woolly toys, and a collection of small china
animals arranged on a shelf.  It was a child's room.  It showed no sign
that its occupant had ever grown up.

"Thanks," Davina said.  Just leave it on the bed.  We'll be down later,"
she said to her mother.

"Don't hurry, darling.  Dinner's not till 8:15.  I'm sure Pavel might
like a bath.  I'd hurry up before Charley takes all the hot water."

"Yes," Davina said.

"She always did, I remember.  I'll knock on your door in about half an
hour," she said to Sasanov. She turned to the bed and opened her
suitcase.  She dressed very simply; years ago she had recognized that
she wasn't the type who could carry off elaborate clothes, or wear a lot
of make-up.

"You look much better without all that stuff on your face," her father
had said, when she began trying to improve her looks.

"Just be natural that's what suits you."  She had given up without
resistance; it was a waste of time trying to compete with a sister who
was so beautiful that conversation stopped when she walked into a room.
She unpacked her clothes, and hung up the long wool skirt and sweater
she intended wearing that night.  The dear, familiar room the haven of
her childhood.  She picked up the shabby tiger, minus an eye, that had
been a Christmas present twenty years ago, touched the glass animals one
by one, remembering the birthdays and when each one was added.  As a
child she had loved animals; her ambition as a teenager had been to
become a vet.  Running away, of course.  She understood the motivation
now.  Seeking a substitute for the dangerous love of human beings.
Animals were faithful, and uncritical.  There was no risk of rejection
in loving horses and dogs, and rabbits, when her sister was claiming
everyone's attention.  She opened the window and looked out over the
garden.  Charley and her father had gone inside; the little group of
chairs stood empty on the terrace below. They'd left the tray of drinks
behind. Sasanov had been fascinated by her sister.  She'd seen it happen
so many times.  She hardly needed to watch them to know that Charley was
exerting her lethal brand of sex- appeal and charm, and, like every
other man who met her, the Russian was responding.  She left the window
open and began to put out her brushes and the few articles of makeup.
She let her hair hang loose and brushed it; the wind on Salisbury Plain
had tangled it; brushing hurt.  She saw her face in the mirror, and the
reflection stared back at her with a set mouth and eyes stinging with
tears. Tears from smoothing the tangles in her hair.  The other kind of
tears had been cried out, a long time ago.  This time it didn't hurt her
to lose a man to Charley; she could sit back with grim detachment and
watch her sister seduce Sasanov because this time it would work in her
favour. Charley could soften him up, unravel the tension which was
making him so restless and uneasy.  Charley, the irresistible, who
didn't know how to stop taking other women's men, would be used in her
turn.  The face in the mirror was hard and plain, the mouth turned down.
It would be ironic if the sister who had wrecked her private life should
help her with Sasanov.  It was a touch the Brigadier would have found
amusing. She changed out of her skirt and blouse, slipped into the
passage in her dressing-gown, and found the bathroom locked.  Charley
was inside. Taking all the hot water, as usual.  She washed in the basin
in her room, changed into the dark-blue skirt and sweater.  And with
cynical bravado, she made up her face and arranged her hair in a high,
smooth sweep.  Charley would appear, so skilfully dishevelled that it
took hours to give the impression she'd run a comb through her hair and
tossed on some clothes.  And Sasanov would be the object of her
attention, a victim selected and pursued, with the indulgent approval of
their father.  He had always delighted in his beautiful daughter's
conquests;

sometimes their mother showed embarrassment, but she too had accepted
Charley's effect upon men as inevitable and not her fault.  She was just
too beautiful and attractive.  Davina glanced at herself once more in
the mirror. Too tall, too thin, too neat.  And too clever. Charley's got
the beauty and Davina's got the brains. She went down and knocked on
Sasanov's door.  There was no reply and she opened it.  The room was
empty; he'd already gone downstairs.  There was a tight little smile on
her face when she went into the sitting-room and found him playing chess
with her sister. The senior police officer who had lunched with the
Brigadier at his club set about supplying his friend with a dead body
before he went off for the weekend.  He lived just outside Dartford in
Kent, with wife and two sons in the final stages of advanced education.
He liked to spend Saturday mornings playing golf.  It relaxed him.  He
left instructions with his office to make inquiries round the coast, and
to put a security cover on anyone recently drowned in the Thames area.
His immediate subordinate did not go home at the weekends, or have time
to play golf.  So by Friday evening, while the Brigadier and his wife
were driving to a neighbour's house for dinner, his superior was settled
in front of the television for the evening, and the Grahams with their
two daughters and their guest were sitting down to dinner, four dead men
of approximately correct requirements had been reported to the Special
Branch.  Two were identifiable and had been reported missing; both were
suicides with mental histories.  The third was little more than a male
torso, caught in the net of a trawler fishing offskegness and, from the
brief report upon it, appeared to be a murder victim.  The fourth was a
body that had spent some time in the sea; it was badly decomposed but
carried a tattoo on one forearm which suggested that the man had been a
seaman.  A quick examination had showed gold dental work which was not
typical of English dentistry. This dead body seemed the most likely to
fit the requirements. The body was removed from the south-coast mortuary
under a special authority signed by the Special Branch chief before he
left on Friday afternoon, and placed in a small private mortuary under
official seal. After the weekend a surgeon would amputate what remained
of the left hand at the wrist, and sever the other at the elbow,
removing the tattoo as well as any chance of fingerprints.  In due
course a dentist would perform a passable job on the teeth, duplicating
as far as possible the dental work already documented on Sasanov's
teeth.  The body had no other distinguishing marks; the age was
approximately right, and the dead man had been of similar build and
height.  The cause of death could definitely be stated as drowning.  The
length of time the body had been in the water did not approximate to the
date of Sasanov's disappearance, but then you couldn't have everything.
It was most inadvisable to disturb the Chief at home during weekends, so
the young officer made out a report for him, and left it ready for
Monday morning.  The dead man, a metal identity disc tagged to his left
foot, stayed in the chilly darkness of his refrigerated berth over the
weekend; the relatives of Per Svenson from the tiny village of Staghan
on the north coast of Norway would never know more than the sad fact
that he had fallen overboard during a storm. Ivan Sasanov looked round
the dinner table at March- wood.  Mrs. Graham was beside him; the
candlelight flattered her, as it did Davina.  It gave a marvelous
softness to the beautiful girl sitting on his other side; the light made
her throat and the one shoulder exposed by her dress a pearly colour
that reminded him of the voluptuous Rubens semi-nudes in the Hermitage.
For a very slim woman she was fleshly, her skin smooth, her arms
rounded, the lovely face framed by an erotic abundance of red hair. He
had let her win at chess; as soon as they began to play he realized she
was hopelessly limited.  And yet there were flashes of cunning that
surprised him, and at the end of their first game she had looked at him
and said accusingly, "You let me win- you're far too good not to have
foreseen that last move."

"I did see it," he said.

"I just wanted to find out how you play.  You must know your opponent's
mind if you want to beat him." She had laughed and set the pieces in
place.  She had a laugh he found difficult to describe.  There was an
old- fashioned word for it.  Merry. Carefree and full of enjoyment. They
played a second time, and they were in the middle of the game when
Davina came in.  She poured herself a drink and stood watching them for
a few minutes.  She looked rather pale and stiff; Sasanov felt emotion
play like lightning between the two sisters, and then it was hidden by a
veneer of friendliness which didn't deceive him.  Davina hated her; he
hadn't gauged how Charley reciprocated.  She showed less of her feelings
because they appeared to be so obvious.  She laughed and joked, and
teased him, glittering like a star in the family circle, whilst Davina's
hatred glowed around her like a nimbus.  He beat Charley the second
time, and brought them to checkmate just as dinner was ready. He didn't
like English food; he found it too bland.  His tastes were catered for
by the private cook at Halldale Manor.  He viewed the chicken dish in a
wine sauce, and the inevitable dull vegetables, without much appetite.
He ate more than he wanted, to be polite, and allowed Captain Graham to
keep his glass filled with wine.  He was surrounded by a high degree of
comfort and good taste; the dining-room, its table bright with family
silver, the pictures and the furniture were uniquely English.  Nothing
ostentatious or new; slight shabbiness was in order.  Nothing offended
the Grahams and their kind more than vulgarity and display.  Mrs. Graham
had asked him a few polite questions and then launched into a long
discourse about gardening.  He wasn't bored, because no effort was
required of him.  He merely smiled and nodded, not quite listening. He
heard Davina's father say, "This is quite a treat, my dear.  We haven't
had a visit from you for a long time.  How is Jim White?"

"Very well," Davina answered him.  There was a slight formality between
the father and elder daughter, embedded in their tones of voice like a
tiny splinter of glass.  Sasanov concentrated, smiling at Mrs. Graham's
description of layering carnations.

"Does he bully you?  Or have you got him under your thumb like a good
secretary should?"

"Nobody bullies me, Father," she said.

"And I can assure you, the Brigadier is not under my thumb or anybody
else's." It shouldn't have sounded sharp but it did.  So that was what
she was supposed to be.  White's secretary.  And that was how her family
thought of her.  The spinster secretary, efficient, brisk and sexless.
He was beginning to understand the puzzle better, just by sitting within
her family.  He finished his wine, and found that Charley's hand lay
like a dove on his sleeve.  She leaned across him, and the voluptuous
scent was strong.

"Mummy darling, you mustn't monopolize Pavel - let me get a word in."

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Graham apologized to him, "I love my garden and I do
get carried away when anyone lets me;

I'll take you round tomorrow if it's a nice morning.  "

"I would like that very much," Sasanov said. He had a small dacha
outside Moscow at a place called Zhukova.  It was one of the privileges
that went with his rank and importance.  Fedya and his daughter Irina
loved spending the weekends there; they used to go for long walks
together, his daughter's dog bounding beside them, barking and dashing
to and fro with excitement.  But they didn't have a garden.  Not a
cultivated work of art like the gardens he had seen from the terrace at
Marchwood.  The memory of the dacha blotted out his surroundings for a
few seconds;

he could smell the pine trees and the crisp fresh air.  The pain was
sharp, like a stab wound. He looked across and saw Davina Graham
watching him.  Her sister's hand still lay on his sleeve as she was
talking to him.  He smiled and didn't listen. Instead he watched Davina
gauging his reactions.  She had a calm detachment that sometimes goaded
him, and sometimes soothed his nerves. Her eyes were not normally
expressive;

she showed only those feelings he was meant to see.  But now her face
was a sad mask, and the polite little smile was full of hurt.  He moved
his arm, and the sister's white hand fell away.  He turned to Harry
Graham and lifted his wineglass.

"To your wife's beautiful garden.  And her charming daughters." Charley
answered the compliment in a low murmur.

"I hope you'll see more of both," she said.

"Mother," Davina said.

"Don't you think we should leave Pavel and Father for a few minutes?"

"Yes, of course."  Both men stood up as the three women left the room.
Captain Graham carried a decanter of port and two glasses to the table
and sat beside Sasanov.

"I've got brandy if you prefer it, but this is rather a good Cockburn's
'62." He looked gratified when his guest accepted the port.

"Would it be indiscreet if I asked you what you thought of our present
government?  I don't suppose you approve of it, but I'd like to hear a
view from outside.  And one does have the feeling that Poland is
friendly to Britain deep down we fought a damned good war together."

"Indeed, yes," Sasanov agreed.  Captain Graham settled down to enjoy
himself. Davina went to her own room; she was putting a little powder on
her face, thinking that she was already too pale, when she saw her
sister reflected in the mirror.  She turned round.

"Davy her sister said.

"Can I come in?"  That was why she hated the masculine abbreviation
other name.  Charley always kept it up.

"Of course," she said.

"I won't be a minute here."

"That's all right," her sister said.

"I don't want to do anything to my face.  I just wanted to talk while we
have a chance." She took a cigarette out of her bag and lit it.

"How are you?"  she said.

"I mean, how are you really!"

"I'm fine," Davina answered.

"Very busy.  I gather you and Brian are splitting up."

"Yes, we are; it's unfortunate, but we weren't good marriage material."
She smiled her beautiful smile.

"Too selfish, I suppose.  He likes his way and I like mine.  We're
better apart, but the details are always a bore."

"They must be," Davina said.

"Why do you keep marrying Wouldn't it save a lot of trouble and expense
if you just lived together till you got fed up?"

"I'm not the one who insists on marriage," Charley answered

"It was never my idea to marry Richard.  I tried to tell you that at the
time.

I wish I felt you'd forgiven me.  "

"I might have been able to, if you'd loved him," Davina said.

"But you took him away from me for fun.  Dull old Davy had a fiance and
you didn't fancy being out of the limelight, did you?  So you made a
dead set at him."

"I didn't," her sister said.

"I told you, but you wouldn't listen to me.  He never left me alone.  I
never wanted to marry him; I didn't know how to get out of it after he
broke off with you.  Davy, for God's sake can't we bury the past?  After
all, you didn't miss much.  You saw how he turned out."

"I saw what you made of him," Davina said. There was silence then.  She
expected her sister to get up and go out, but she didn't.  She sat on
the bed and smoked.

"Your Pole seems nice," she said at last.

"Just so I don't put my foot in it, is he a boy friend?"

"No," Davina said.

"Just a friend."

"I think he likes you," Charley remarked.

"He keeps looking at you. That's a sure sign.  " Davina got up.

"There's nothing in it; he's just a friend."

"Mother thinks he's most attractive," Charley said.

"Why don't you encourage him a bit, Davy?  You're so remote with men;
they get frightened off."

"You live your life, Charley, and I'll live mine," she said flatly.

"I'm going downstairs.  Are you coming?  And try not to drop that filthy
cigarette-ash all over the floor." Her sister shrugged.

"If you don't relax," she said, 'you'll never get a man.  You're turning
into a real spinster, Davy.  And I'm not being a bitch.  I'm just
telling you the truth.  "

"One day," Davina said quietly, 'you're going to face the truth about
yourself.  I'd rather be a spinster than a tramp.  " She hurried out and
down the stairs; her father and Sasanov had come into the sitting-room
and were standing by the fire, talking.  Her mother was sitting in her
armchair beside a lamp, wearing spectacles and sewing; she looked serene
and she gave her elder daughter a tender smile as she came towards her.

"Come and sit down near me," she said.

"Tell me what you think of this pattern." Mrs.  Graham was an
accomplished needlewoman; cushion covers and chair-seats were examples
of her work.  Davina sat beside her.

"It's lovely," she said, looking at the embroidery-frame.

"That's the Bargello pattern, isn't it?"

"Yes, darling.  I'm covering the two hall-chair seats they've got rather
tatty.  You ought to do this, you know...  it's so soothing."

"I don't have the time," Davina answered.

"Or the patience.  I never could sew anything properly."

"No, you couldn't."  Her mother smiled.

"That's quite right.  You look a little tired are you working very
hard?"

"Quite hard," she admitted.  Day and night, in fact, locked in combat
with another human being.  The hardest work of all.

"I wish you'd come down and see us more," her mother murmured.  It
wasn't a reproach.

"Your father was so delighted when I told him you and Charley were
coming this weekend."

"I'm sure he was," Davina said; her mother didn't notice the gentle
sarcasm, or if she did, she ignored it and went on.

"He likes your friend Pavel.  I think he's charming I remember some of
the Polish army officers in the war they were such dashing young men. We
all fell in love with them..."  She didn't look up or interrupt her
sewing.

"Is there anything between you anything serious?"

"No, Mother," Davina said.

"Charley asked me the same thing.  We're just friends, that's all.  He's
rather lonely in London and I thought he'd like to meet you and spend a
weekend in a family.  Don't start marrying me off to Pavel, for heaven's
sake."

"Of course not," Mrs. Graham said.  She put the embroidery-frame aside.

"Davina darling, having a career isn't everything, you know.  You ought
to think about getting married.  There must be some nice men around in
London you can bring anyone down here you like, you know that." Davina
put a hand on her mother's arm.

"I know," she said.

"Don't worry about me, I'm perfectly happy.  I've got a very full life."

"It's not still Richard, is it?"  The faded blue eyes were anxious.

"No," Davina shook her head.

"I got over that a long time ago."

"Are you still angry with Charley?  I feel there's an atmosphere between
you.

I wish you could forget it and be your old happy selves again.  Blood's
thicker than water, and you are sisters."

"We're all right, Mother," she said.

"He was no damned good or he wouldn't have run off with her in the first
place.  I never gave it a thought."

"I'm so glad," her mother said.

"I do wish she'd meet someone and settle down for good.  I thought Brian
would be the answer but all he thinks about is his career, apparently.
He's made Charley really miserable."

"That's a shame," Davina said. Her sister was talking to Sasanov; he and
her father laughed at something she said.  She had never heard him laugh
aloud before.  She felt a little colour burning on both cheeks.

"He likes you.  He keeps looking at you."  Charley's words floated into
her mind.  Mocking, patronizing- she didn't know which.  He wasn't
looking at anyone but her sister, and besides his laughter, there was an
air of excitement about him.  A full-blooded man responding to the
challenge of a desirable woman. The room seemed suffocatingly hot.
Surely they didn't need a fire at this time of year.  She had offered
him a woman; why should she mind so much that he had found one for
himself.  Jealousy, she chided herself angrily.  You're jealous because
it's your sister.  And you offered him a professional whore sent by the
Department.  Because you didn't have the courage to go to him yourself.
Remember how angry he was, how you nearly unbalanced the whole carefully
constructed pas-de-deux you've shadow-danced with him for the past five
months.  He didn't want clinical sex.  He wanted you and you backed off.
Now you've lost him to Charley.  Like Richard, who left you to marry
her;

like all the men who ever met her. She got up and went over to the group
by the fireplace.  She slipped her arm through Sasanov's, and saw the
look of surprise on her father's face.  She smiled at him and at her
sister.

"I'm going to take Pavel for a walk in the moonlight," she announced.

"It's got so stuffy in here." Charley and her father were so unprepared
that for a moment they just stared at her.  Davina had never been
intimate with any man in public. She had never claimed Richard, even
when they were engaged, the way she was now claiming the Pole.  Davina
did not take men for walks in the moonlight.

"How romantic," her sister said.

"Don't stay out too long," her father said.  He looked embarrassed.

"It's getting late and I want to lock up the house." She steered Sasanov
out of the room; at the door to the terrace she dropped his arm.

"I hope you didn't mind," she said.

"I thought you might need a break from them.  Father and Charley
together can be quite overpowering."

"I like your father," he said.

"We talked politics after you left the dining-room.  He is an amazing
reactionary; I was most interested."

"He's the only grass-roots Tory you'll ever meet," Davina said.

"There aren't that many of them left.  And I'm afraid Charley is rather
a flirt."  She couldn't stop herself saying it. They were standing in
the passage; she hadn't opened the terrace door. Sasanov reached and
turned the handle.

"You said we would walk," he reminded her.

"That was just an excuse," she protested.

"You don't have to go outside."

"I would like to," he said.

"Fresh air helps me to sleep." There was a full moon and the garden was
silver and black in the translucent light.  He walked beside her along
the brick paths round the flower-beds.  It was a still, sound less
night.  They didn't touch each other; there were no steps and they could
see the garden quite clearly.

"I hope this was a good idea," Davina said at last.

"If you want to go early tomorrow I can make an excuse..."

"I'm enjoying myself," Sasanov answered.

"It's a new world to me.  I find it interesting.  Everything about the
way you live is different;

the way your family thinks and talks, the customs here.  It's like
another planet to a Russian.  "

"I wanted you to see a little of what life in England could be like,"
she said quietly.

"You and your wife and daughter could have a place in the country.  Or
in a town if you prefer.  You could all be happy here.  They could be
free too." He stopped and looked down at her.

"I wouldn't know what to do with your freedom.  Nor would my wife and
child. Russians have never been free.  We need a strong hand over us, if
we're going to be happy.  You wouldn't understand that.  You wouldn't
understand that in Russia men like your father don't talk about their
government.  They never have done.  Not in Tsarist times and not now."

"You're closing your mind," she said.

"You're prejudiced because my father talked politics to you after
dinner." Sasanov protested.

"That's not true; I was expecting it.  I like political discussions; but
there was no challenge, no risk."

"Now that / don't understand," Davina said.

"I don't see any fun in being frightened to speak your mind, and I don't
think you do either. You're just being bloody- minded!  " They faced
each other in the middle of the path.

"And you are trying to pick a quarrel," Sasanov said.

"Why?" Because it's not working out, she wanted to say; because I've
made a mistake bringing you down here.  You can't see yourself or your
family fitting into English life.  And I know you'll go to bed with my
sister before the weekend is over, unless I can get you away.  And that
I cannot bear.  A bank of cloud covered the moon.  Suddenly they were in
darkness.

"I'm going in," she said.

"I hope you sleep.  Maybe you'll be in a better mood tomorrow." She
began to walk away, and promptly tripped over the edge of the path. She
heard him laugh behind her.  He caught her by the elbow.

"Don't be stupid," he said.

"You can't see."

"Nor can you!"

"I didn't fall over," he remarked.  She tried to pull away but he
wouldn't let go.  They proceeded slowly and carefully back towards the
lighted windows of the house.  Then the moon slipped free and she broke
away from him.  He barred the way to the house.  She couldn't see his
face.

"Wait, Vina.  Don't go in.  I miss my wife," he said slowly.

"More than ever.  I don't want to be alone tonight." She answered before
she could stop herself.  She felt frozen and empty.

"You won't be, if I know my sister." He put both hands on her shoulders.

"I don't want your sister," Sasanov said. There was a little clock on
her dressing-table; the dial was luminous and the hands showed five
minutes to three.  It was impossible to sleep in her narrow bed,
although they had both dozed for a time and then awoken. She had never
felt so exhausted in her life.  She had slept with her fiance, Richard,
and found sex tender and fulfilling.  There had been a lot of love in
their lovemaking.  At least on her part.  But it was a poor preparation
for going to bed with Sasanov.  She didn't want to remember Richard, but
he came into her thoughts, and with the Russian's heavy arms around her
the memory was of a feeble, ineffectual lover.  It was a strange
revelation, and the implications were disturbing.  She would consider
them tomorrow, she decided, and then realized that tomorrow had become
today, and the man beside her was stirring and active again. Sasanov
leaned over her and kissed her afterwards.

"Are you all right?"

"I feel I've been run over by a bus."  And she laughed softly.

"I'm sorry.  Am I such a bad lover?"

"No, no, no don't apologize.  It's just I've never had a man who was so
impatient.  It's very flattering."  She twisted her arms round his neck;
she couldn't see him in the darkness.  She kissed him.

"I feel ridiculously happy," she said.

"Every woman should have someone like you for Christmas." Oh, Brigadier
White, she thought suddenly, if you could see me now.  and my lovely
sister who hops in and out of bed like a chestnut on a hot griddle.

"You can't sleep in here," she said.

"Do you want to go back to your own bed?"

"No," Sasanov said.

"I want to talk; I like to talk afterwards.  Do you mind?"

"Of course not," Davina reached out and switched on the bedside lamp. He
blinked and, stretching over her, he turned it out.

"That's horrible," he said.

"I'll pull the curtains back if you want light." The sky was cloudless
and the bright moon shone into the room.  His naked body turned to
silver.  She made what room for him she could, and he slid into the bed
again.

"What do you want to talk about?"  Davina asked him.  Her own body had a
complacent, lazy life of its own, enjoying its exhaustion.  Now her mind
snapped to attention.  "I want to talk."

"Do you want a cigarette?"  she asked him.

"No.  Next time, we will have some vodka in the room.  Then we can drink
together.  That's very good; you'll like it."

"I'll get some," she promised.  She waited, not taking the initiative.

"Jacob Belezky was my friend since we were children," Sasanov said
suddenly.

"We went to the same village school, and I wanted to marry his sister
when I was fourteen.  Did you know that, Vina?"

"No," she said.

"You actually grew up together?"

"He was very clever, clever as a Jew, we say in Russia.  He went on to
the Science College in Moscow, while I took a course of political
studies in Leningrad.  His sister became a doctor, with a practice in
Moscow.  I used to take her out, before I met my wife."  His face was
turned away from her, looking at the window.

"I didn't know you were that close," she said.

"I don't think anyone did."

"He became a physicist," Sasanov went on.

"He had a brilliant brain, a great future.  He was moved to Moscow,
where I was posted to the Ministry for External Affairs.  We took up our
old friendship.  Our wives were friends too.  He would come to our
apartment on Nevsky Street and we'd all sit round and eat and drink and
talk all night.  I thought of it this evening, sitting with your family.
It was so different, so calm and formal, like a play in the theatre.

I tried to explain to you in the garden, how different it was.  In my
apartment we have a big table in the kitchen.  The family lives there;

our samovar is in the middle of it, like a god; there's always food and
tea and vodka, or wine.  When our friends come, we all sit together,
round the table and the samovar.  I have a very good apartment, with
three bedrooms, and a dacha out at Zhukova.  But we live and eat and
enjoy ourselves in the room with the samovar.  It is the heart of the
Russian home.  You would find it very noisy; everybody shouts.  And it's
the place where people speak their thoughts out loud. You can't do it in
restaurants or public places.  You have to be careful.  "

I've done it, she was thinking, I've broken through.  He's really
talking to me now.

"But Belezky felt safe with you," she murmured.

"Yes, he trusted me.  He wanted to change me, so he took the risk."

"How change you?"

"Make me see our way of life through his eyes.  We used to sit up all
night, arguing about so many things.  The rights of the individual; he
was always saying how important they were...  the freedoms, he called
them.  Freedom to worship a god, if you believed in one; freedom to
speak, to read and write, to travel.  Freedom to take work or change
your job without permission."

"And what did you say?"  she asked.

"How did you answer him?"

"I told him the truth," Sasanov said.

"Those freedoms were impossible for Russians.  The Soviet system can't
operate without controls.  I made a good case; it seemed good at the
time. Freedom to work where you want means unemployment for another man.
Religion perverts the minds of the young and teaches them superstition.
To write and read and speak freely means that our people are exposed to
propaganda from outside, that error and subversion can undermine the
State.  Besides, as I said in the garden, we have never been free in the
way you mean." He raised his arms above his head and stretched; he
brought the right one round her shoulders.

"We need a tyrant," he said slowly.

"A Tsar, a Stalin.  We need the protection of a strong man.  Then we can
find our own way to get round the laws when it's needed.  Jacob couldn't
accept that."

"I find it difficult too," Davina said.

"Difficult to believe you accept it either."

"I did," he countered.

"I was part of the tyranny; I helped to keep it in power.  Jacob made me
see it in terms of people.  Of himself and his wife and the friends they
were making who thought the same."

"According to what you say," she pointed out, 'you should have denounced
him.

He said something in Russian which sounded like a curse.

"I kept trying to persuade him to keep his mouth shut!  He had
everything he wanted a top post in the space- research programme, a wife
he loved, a good salary he'd have a dacha soon, I told him. What did the
rest matter?  Why not enjoy life?  He wouldn't listen.  He had that
Jewish soul which isn't satisfied unless it suffers.  And then he asked
to go to Israel.  Of course he was refused.  He must have known he was
too valuable to be allowed to leave the country.  He was provoking the
authorities.  Demonstrating that he wasn't a free man. And he started to
say these things openly.  He was dismissed from his post; they were
turned out of their apartment.  Jacob couldn't get a job except as a
low-paid manual worker.  Everybody shunned him.  "

"You too?"  Davina asked him quietly.  The pattern he described was so
familiar.

"He was my friend," Sasanov said angrily.

"It was safe for me to see him, because I said I was watching him.  Then
he signed the declaration monitoring the abuse of human rights in
Russia.  He and Scherensky and Bokov.  You know what happened" to them.
He doomed himself.  When he was arrested I tried to help.  I went to see
him, I tried to persuade him to plead guilty, to ask for mercy. All they
needed was a public confession that he had been wrong.  " He paused, and
Davina noted his use of the word'they' when he was talking about
Belezky's persecutors.  That was when he had really severed the link
with his colleagues in the KGB.

"He didn't do it," she said.

"He committed suicide." She felt Savanov stiffen.

"He was sent to a mental hospital, two months before the trial they
diagnosed a personality disorder."  She felt the rigid muscles in his
arm, the tension in his whole body.

"He didn't kill himself," he said flatly.

"They killed him.  So many shock treatments he had a heart-attack and
died."

"My God," she whispered.

"What a dreadful thing."

"Jacob was lucky," Sasanov said.

"Scherensky and Bokov are still in the place.  They'll never come out.
The others are being arrested one by one.  Jacob's wife was charged with
malpractice and sent to prison for twelve years.  I remember looking
round our kitchen, and thinking we'd never see them again.  No more
arguments, no more evenings together.  That was when Jacob won.  He had
to die to make me see that he was right."

"I'm sorry."  She reached up and touched his face.  His cheek was wet.

"I'm so sorry.  I didn't know it was as bad as this."

"You'll have a lot to tell your Chief," he said.

"Don't say that please."

"I don't mind," he said.

"I understand.  I knew what I was doing when I asked you to take me into
your bed.  I had come to the end.  I needed you, Vina."

"I'm glad," Davina said.

"I'm really glad.  And I'll do everything I can to help."

"I can't see what to do," he said.

"To stay, to make a new life here.  I think of Russia and my family, and
this place seems like the moon."

"Wait till the morning," she whispered to him.

"Don't try and think about it now."

"It is the morning," he answered.

"Look, there's a grey light in the sky.  It's five o'clock.  You will be
tired today.

I must go and let you sleep.  " She moved herself upright against him;

the covers had fallen away from them, and he looked at her; he traced
the outline of her breast.

"You have a beautiful body," he said.  She laid her hand on his chest;

he had a lot of hair, wiry hair that came to a point at the base of his
throat.  She pulled at a strand of it.

"I thought you had fallen for my sister," she said.

"Don't you think she's beautiful?"

"Very beautiful," he agreed quietly.

"But all she would do with a man is take.  I needed a woman who could
give." She looked up at him.

"Don't go back just yet," she said.

"Stay with me." Jeremy Spencer-Barr looked at his reflection in the
bathroom mirror. He was pleased with what he saw.  A clean-shaven,
regular-featured face, with wavy fair hair, fashionably cut a little
long, brown eyes that were bright with health.  A good-looking man in
his early thirties, possessing a fit, lean body and a mind that matched
it.  He smiled slightly at himself.  There was a blister on his lower
lip, where the girl still asleep in his bedroom had bitten him.  They
had been living together for the past eighteen months and she had begun
showing signs of wanting to get married.  It was a pity, because she was
very attractive and he was fond of her.  But marriage was not among his
plans.  It was lucky from that point of view that he was going to the
States.  But it wasn't the job he really wanted.  Taking over from a
has-been like Peter Harrington in New York wasn't the same as being
minder to Ivan Sasanov. The sharp-faced Graham girl had landed that
fish.  He could only speculate on how she was progressing; it was
impossible to find out anything positive about Sasanov.  He was looking
forward to New York; he liked the pace of life in the States; it
stimulated him, and he had made friends while he was at Harvard.
Ambition ran in the family.  His father was the head of a prestigious
stockbroking firm in the City, his uncle's Civil Service career had been
just as brilliant; and he, Jeremy, with a younger brother and sister at
Cambridge, was the most promising of them all.  He had never spared
himself.  The young man in the bathroom mirror, putting toothpaste on a
brush, was the result of remorseless self-discipline and demonic drive.
He concealed the less attractive side of his personality beneath
impeccable manners and a sort of boyish charm which older women found
appealing.  But he was driven by fiends;

fiends of ambition and love of achievement.  As a child, he only enjoyed
something if no one else could do it.  He had nearly killed himself
rock-climbing in the Pennines.  The rope held and the Spencer-Barr luck
with it.  The next time he attempted that particular climb, he reached
the top in record time.  He said of himself that he had no nerves; this
wasn't accurate. He had a finely tuned and ultra-sensitive nervous
system, which supplied his intellect with the imaginative fuel it
needed, but he was always master of himself. That was why Brigadier
White's department was his chosen venue; it required exceptional skills
to be a successful Intelligence operative. He scorned the word
counter-spy as over-dramatic.  Intelligence was now a science, an
exercise in technology allied to human intellect.  The world and the
forces directing the destiny of its peoples seemed like a gigantic
jigsaw of interlocking parts, each part an independent puzzle where the
shape of every piece could alter just as it began to fit.  He finished
brushing his teeth, took a mouthful of water and spat out the froth.
Mary Walker was a director of a fine art gallery in London;

they had met at an exhibition and she seemed to fall in love with him
almost at once.  He was very fond of her indeed; she was a clever girl,
with a head for business, and she constantly told him how wonderful he
was.  And she had improved his sex life.  Jeremy was good at everything,
except making love. His temperament was too intense, his energies
diverted into too many channels to leave him much sexual drive.  He was
a bad lover, who couldn't relax, and until he met Mary, he'd avoided
relationships with women.  They damaged his ego and made him aware of a
deficiency in himself that he couldn't put right.  She was three years
younger than he, divorced while in her early twenties, and she had the
skill and patience to nurse them through to a satisfying love-life.  He
really might have married her, he thought suddenly, if he hadn't been
told that at this stage in his career a wife would be a hindrance.  So
he had told her he was going to New York, and expected to be out of
England for two years. He was touched and flattered when she cried.  He
made up his mind to buy her a nice present, something to remind her of
him when she wore it.  He went back into the bedroom, and she woke up,
throwing the bedclothes aside, one arm across her eyes against the
daylight.  There was only a month left before he took up the American
post.  He wanted to make the best of it.

"It's ten o'clock," he said.

"I'll bring you some coffee."

"Thank you, darling." She watched him, smiling, as he left the room. She
could hear the dash of water in the kettle, because the kitchen was very
close.  He showed her little considerations like bringing her coffee in
bed over the weekends.  He loved her in his own way, and she didn't ask
for more than he could give. She was going to miss him very much.  And
anyway, New York wasn't all that far.  She could make trips to see him.
He wouldn't find another girl who understood him as well as she did. Two
years wasn't all that long.  Jeremy didn't know it, but she was a very
determined person, and she wanted to get married.  The worst way to go
about it was to fuss him with too much sex. She used to show-jump as a
teenager, and she remembered the adage, always end on a good note. Last
night had been particularly successful.  She would leave it there. She
got out of bed, put on her silk pyjamas, brushed her hair, and was
sitting up wearing her glasses and reading the Telegraph when he came
back. They drank their coffee and discussed the news in perfect amity.
He had planned a drive into the country and lunch at a well-known
riverside hotel.  They both liked to do something at weekends.  He
couldn't have endured a day spent in idleness.  That evening she was
taking him to a friend's Chelsea house for drinks. They were both
looking forward to their day together.

"Charley, darling," Mrs. Graham said anxiously, 'have you seen Davina
this morning she looks like death!  "

"She looks very tired," her daughter said.

"Maybe she didn't sleep."

"I think she overworks," Mrs. Graham said.  Charley had slept late; she
was coming down the stairs as Davina was going out.  She spread a slice
of toast with butter and marmalade.  She'd noticed the dark shadows
under the eyes; if it hadn't been Davina a ribald explanation would have
come to mind.  The Pole had followed her.  Charley had given him her
most brilliant smile.  She had almost expected him to come to her
bedroom door last night.  When he didn't she went to sleep instead.

"I saw her going out with Pavel," she said to her mother.

"Where were they going?"

"She said they were going to walk through the woods," Mrs. Graham
answered.

"You know Mother- I don't believe her about Pavel.  I think there's
something brewing there.  Who on earth goes for a walk at this time in
the morning?  I think she wants to take him off alone."

"Oh, darling, don't be silly.  Davina's never been like that.  You were
the one who went off hand-in-hand to our woods and came back with the
poor man looking like a dog following a bone!" Charley burst out
laughing.

"It doesn't sound very romantic, does it? You are beastly, Mother,
putting it like that.  Besides, I always went for walks at a civilized
time, not at a horrible hour like half past nine!  Do you remember that
nice Tony French?  The one who was Brian's best man?  "

"I do," her mother said.

"Give me some tea, will you?"

"He asked me to marry him," Charley giggled.

"After he'd got his divorce, of course."  She went on laughing and
spilled tea into the saucer.

"Aren't they funny, men?  And there was Brian snarling and snapping with
jealousy.  Why did he have to change after we got married such a pity.
We really could have had fun.  But it was nothing but his bloody
business after the first year.  Oh, dear, never mind...  I wonder what
they're doing out there?"

"Davina and Pavel?  I don't know; walking I imagine."

"Through the dew and the nettles," Charley said.

"I wonder what they talk about?  World affairs or trade behind the Iron
Curtain.  I'd love to be a bird in a tree in those woods!"

"Finish your breakfast darling, and get dressed," her mother said.

"And you're not to be mischievous when they come back.  Davina won't
like being teased."

"No, she never did like it," Charley said.

"She's never forgiven me for Richard.  You know that, don't you?"

"She will," Mrs. Graham said soothingly.

"Just as soon as she's found somebody of her own and she's happy, you'll
be friends again." Charley got up and slipped an arm round her mother's
shoulders.  She kissed her lightly on the cheek.

"You're such a sweet optimist.  Let's hope you're right."  She went
upstairs to dress.

"I thought of staying," Sasanov said.

"Of making contact with the West and working with them like Penkovsky.
But in Russia the life of a traitor is short.  I wouldn't have lasted
long enough.  So I made plans to come over.  I gave a long report on
Jacob and his wife; whatever I said couldn't harm him but I tried to
clear her of political activity.  It didn't make any difference.  She
will be an old woman when she comes back from twelve years' hard labour.
Probably she'll die too.  She wasn't a strong girl."

"How long did you take to make up your mind?"  Davina walked beside him.
The grass was very wet, but a bright sunshine filtered through the
trees, and there was a smell of green things growing, mixed with the
pungent earth.  It was a clear, glorious morning.

"I can remember the day.  Really it was the middle of the night.  August
20th.  We were in the country for the week end.  My wife was asleep
beside me.  I hadn't made love to her for months.  Not since Jacob's
death.  She didn't ask me why; she knew how disturbed I was, how
unhappy.  She was asleep and I was awake.  I knew I couldn't go on
living as I'd done before.  I couldn't go on with the KGB.  Their job
was to track down people like the Belezkys, and bring them to the
authorities to punish.  To put in asylums and destroy them with drugs
and torture.  Or to send them to the Gulag, like Jacob's wife, who'd
never done anything but love him.

"I made my choice then.  I would defect.  I slept afterwards, for the
first time in many, many weeks."

"You had to leave your family," she said.

"How could you justify that?"

"Because I couldn't take them," he answered.

"I knew I had to go alone.  Nobody could blame them if they were left
behind. So long as they knew nothing, they would be safe.  That's what I
thought then. Now, I'm not sure any more.  I have that one photograph of
them walking in the street.  And your promise that they are free and
well.  " He stopped and looked at her.

"Have you lied to me?  Tell me.  I must have the truth now."

"I haven't lied," Davina answered.

"They're perfectly all right." He turned away and began walking.

"I have something your Brigadier wants," he said.

"More than just information.  I can tell him how to make use of it.  I
can put a weapon in his hands that will save the Middle East and the
oil."

"If you tell me," she said, and she managed to keep the excitement out
of her voice, "I'll put it to him.  And we can work out a deal together."

"I don't want to live the rest of my life in this little country," he
said.

"It suffocates me.  I want my wife and daughter with me.  I'll work with
your people for two years. After that, I'll choose where we want to go."

"That's very reasonable," she said.

"I'm sure he'll agree to that." Sasanov quickened his pace.

"He'll agree to anything I ask," he said.

"But I don't want words from him.  I want Fedya and my daughter here,
beside me.  Then I will talk to him and his people.  They come over
first." They had reached the end of the little wood; they came out into
the sunshine, at the top of a rolling field.  The views across the hills
were so spectacular that Davina caught hold of his sleeve and made him
stop.  The village church probed a grey stone finger of steeple into the
sky, and the majestic undulations of Salisbury Plain stretched out on
either side of them like a coloured quilt.

"Look at that," she challenged.

"How can you- say you'd suffocate here!" He saw her smile at him, and
slowly he smiled back.

"You would only understand if I could show you Russia," he said.

"One day, maybe you will go there.  Then you'll think of me." They began
to walk across the brow of the field: the constant wind that swept
across the Plain whipped at Davina's hair and stung their faces.

"Supposing your family won't come over," she said.

"Then what happens?"

"You must get a message to them from me.  I know they will come."

"But you've got to face the alternative," she persisted.

"What will you do if they refuse?  Or we fail" If they refuse," he
said," I will go back.  "

"You can't!"  Davina swung round on him, both hands holding her flying
hair off her face.  The wind rose suddenly and buffeted them. She said
again, "You can't - you'll be killed!  If they did that to Belezky, what
do you think will happen to you?" He took her hand and turned her round;
with their backs to the wind they broke into a stumbling run down the
hill to the shelter of the wood.  He shouted his answer.

"I can make a deal; there was no deal for Jacob and the others.  For a
man who goes to the West and then comes home, there is always
forgiveness."

"I can't hear you properly," she said.

"Oh, this damned wind..." They were in shelter as quickly as the wind
had caught them.  The sky was serenely blue, and the sun shone.  A flock
of little clouds flew past them to the west.

"I can protect myself," he said.

"I can be publicly rehabilitated. And perhaps I can work against them
from inside.  "

"Then you won't stay without your family?"

"No."

"All right," she nodded.

"Then we'll just have to get them for you.  Do you want to walk down to
the village; it's very pretty.  You've never been into a pub, have you?"

"Are you sure your Brigadier would allow it?"  he asked her.

"I don't believe he's let you take me off without some security
arrangements."

"I'm quite sure he hasn't," she said.

"But we won't see them.  Not unless you go off on your own."

"Take me to your pub, then," Sasanov said.

"But please, not to drink your beer!" She laughed and said, "I promise."
There was a fine colour in her face; the shadows of their sleepless
night no longer showed; the severe hairstyle was in total disarray, and
she looked younger, more buoyant.  As they walked down the road towards
the little village pub, she took his arm possessively. Sasanov knew how
she was feeling.  The long months of patience had ended in success.
Professionally, she was elated, and excited.  And she had stepped across
the barrier that was her best protection.  He was a man and not a
challenge any more.  A man who had chosen her bed in preference to the
sister who had undermined her confidence and somehow earned her hatred.
He amused himself wondering which of the parked cars in the village
street be longed to the Brigadier's surveillance men, and whether some
of them were crowded round the bar inside the pub. He remembered the
postcard she bought him at Stonehenge.  He had no money.

"Lend me something," he murmured to her.

"I want to pay for what we drink."

"Most men don't mind these days if a woman treats them," Davina said.

"I mind," Sasanov retorted.

"Lend me the money."

"I'm surprised Russians are so old-fashioned," she whispered.

"Here's five pounds.  I'll have a glass of white wine." He took the
money from her and shouldered his way to the bar. Davina saw a man
reading the Mirror in a corner seat lower the paper just enough to take
a look at him.  Special Branch, she said to herself. Or the Department's
own surveillance team.  He talks so confidently of going back to Russia
if things don't work out.  She folded her hands and studied her nails;
if she painted them they would look quite nice.  He must know what he
was talking about. It was just that she couldn't imagine the Brigadier
letting him go. They stayed in the bar till half-past twelve.  When they
left to go back up the drive to the house, the man reading the newspaper
put it on the table beside him, and stood in the window for a minute.
The driver of a parked Ford Cortina on the other side of the road
started the engine and began to cruise in the same direction till he saw
the man and woman turn in at the gate and disappear.  He made a note
that they were arm-in-arm and seemed to be on very close terms.  He
spoke quietly into a radio telephone and went on past Marchwood House.
Someone else would take over from him for the afternoon.

"Do you have to go so early?"  Captain Graham couldn't hide his
disappointment.  Charley leaned towards him; she was balanced on the arm
of his big chair, with one arm resting on the back.  They made a
charming picture; age and beauty smiling at each other.  Her
announcement that she was leaving after tea had changed her father's
smile to a reproachful frown.

"You haven't been for such a long time, and you're dashing off so
quickly. Why don't you at least stay for dinner?"

"I would, darling," she said, 'but I promised this girl friend of mine
I'd go to a party she's giving.  She'd be so upset if I didn't go. Don't
be cross with me.  " She murmured quietly," I'll come down next weekend
I promise.  If Davy isn't here.  "

"Let's go outside," her father said.

"A quick stroll in the garden." Davina saw them leave together; she was
reading the newspaper and Sasanov was dozing in an armchair.  His face
looked tired and gaunt in repose.  She noted her father and her sister
walking past the window a minute later, arm-in-arm and talking
earnestly.  He had never been intimate with her, or taken her arm.  She
didn't care, she thought; she wasn't jealous any more or hurt because he
made such a display of favouritism.  She had her own life, her own
world.  She could shut him out now. She was glad Sasanov had relaxed
enough to fall asleep.  She kept her sense of triumph and excitement to
herself, confident that nothing showed.  And it was more than just
professional satisfaction.  She had proved something to herself, or
rather the Russian had proved it to her. She had something to offer a
man.  His dismissal of her sister was devastating in its perception. He
hadn't been fooled by the beauty and charm and sexual magnetism that had
made idiots of clever men before.

"A woman who would only take from a man..."  And with that assessment,
Sasanov had discarded Charley.  "I wanted a woman who could give." She
had given gladly, and she would go on, if he wanted it.  She could help
him get the best possible terms from the Brigadier, insist on his wife
and daughter being smuggled out of Russia.  And feel no jealousy that he
wanted them.  She knelt by the fire and lit it, watching the little
flames flickering among the wood and catching hold. The room was still
and peaceful, and the fire warmed her as she sat on the floor, still
holding the matches.  She wanted Sasanov to be happy. They were allies
now, instead of adversaries, and she felt a tremendous relief.  There
was a movement behind her and she turned.  He was awake, watching her.

"You look like a little girl, sitting on the floor," he said.

"You slept for a bit," she said.

"Do you want some tea?"

"I hate English tea."

"Don't be bad-tempered.  I'll put lemon in it."

"Where has everyone gone?"

"My mother's in the garden I think, and my father and Charley are out
walking."

"You have an obsession in this country," he remarked.

"Every minute you go for a walk."  Davina saw the provocative look in
his eye and stood up.

"I'll get some tea for you," she said blandly.

"Don't let the fire go down." In the garden, Charley was explaining her
reason for going back to London.

"It's not just my girl-friend, darling," she said.

"I don't like to say it to you, but it's difficult for me with Davina
here. It's nearly two years since I've seen her, and she's just as angry
over Richard. You'd think after five years she'd have stopped hating me
for it.  "

"I was afraid this might happen," her father said grimly.

"I warned your mother she'd be awkward.  The trouble is, she's never
found anyone else.  He was her one chance, I suppose."  He sighed.

"You can't help it if Richard fell in love with you.  The pity is, you
married him.  She can't get over that anyway that's what your mother
says and she's probably right.  But it's a damned nuisance.  I'd been
looking forward to you coming down and spending a nice weekend at home.
After all, it's her own fault if she wants to be an old maid!  She's
never made an effort with anyone else.  But she won't come down again,
not for a time, anyway.  So you come next weekend, Charley darling, and
we'll have you to ourselves." She squeezed his arm affectionately.

"I will; I promise.  And don't say anything to Mother about this, will
you?

I don't want to upset her."

"I won't," her father said.

"Let's go in, shall we?  It's turning cold. Have some tea before you go?
" She saw the pleading in his face, and said, "Of course I will.  We'll
have some together in the kitchen.  Then I'll pack and be on my way."
They had always been intimates; even as a tiny child, she felt a
sympathy with her father that was closer than with anyone else.  He gave
her a feeling of comfort and reassurance; when she was naughty as a
little girl, she never doubted his forgiveness and she had the same
certainty in adult life.  He hadn't reproached her for taking Davina's
fiance and marrying him, even against her family's advice.  When that
marriage ended in under two years, with her husband drinking and
near-bankrupt, Captain Graham had welcomed her home and set his
solicitors on the unfortunate Richard.  Her second attempt had seemed
more promising; this time the man was not an infatuated young architect,
but a very rich man some ten years older, with a property and investment
company.  When that marriage too fell to pieces, Charley sped home to be
comforted and reassured that for the second time she was in the right.
Yet she only believed it when she was with her parents.  Or when she was
at the beginning of a new love-affair, and it seemed that she was going
to find the same unequivocal adoration she associated with her father.
Then her self- assurance and optimism overcame her commonsense, and the
new adventure was begun without a thought for the outcome.  Love for
Charley was a constant search that always promised perfect happiness,
and ultimately always disappointed. She was devoted to her parents, but
she couldn't stay with them too long, unless she was hurt or unhappy and
needed to be set right.  She had never understood the need to run away
from them after a time; she merely followed her impulse, and felt
vaguely guilty.  She made tea now for her father in the kitchen, and
they shared it like conspirators. Then she said she must pack and start
the drive back.  At the kitchen door, Charley slipped an arm round her
father's neck and, reaching up, she kissed him.

"I'm sorry the weekend's been so short," she said "And don't forget
you're my best beau!"  It was her way of saying goodnight to him when
she was very young, and going to a party or a dance with some admirer
fidgeting by the front door.  She didn't recognize that, unfortunately
for her, it was the truth. She said a brief and casual goodbye to
Davina.  She and the Pole were crouching over the fire with teacups in
their hands, and for a moment Charley had a feeling she was intruding.
She didn't approach Davina;

she stood in the doorway, displaying another facet of her amazing good
looks. The beautiful traveller about to embark, suitcase in one hand,
the other raised in a graceful wave.  She saw them turn from each other
and look at her, and there was something close, almost intimate, about
them, although they were not sitting together, not touching in any way.
The Pole stood up, but didn't move towards her like most men did,
looking for an excuse to hold her hand while they said goodbye.  He
loomed with his back to the fire, and the lamplight behind him.  He
seemed solid, menacing, not the easy captive she had first judged him.
And her sister's face held something secret, and yet triumphant.

"Goodbye," they said, one after the other; she echoed it with a gaiety
she didn't feel, and quickly shut the door on them.

"Well," Davina said loudly.

"That was a short visit.  She must have some poor devil in tow in
London. Let's have a drink." Sasanov pressed heavily on her shoulder
with his hand.  The fingers hurt.

"Let's go upstairs," he said. Normally, Jeremy Spencer-Barr avoided
beautiful girls.  They made him uncomfortable, with their expectation
that he was going to be attracted to them.  He spent the first half hour
at the drinks party that evening talking to a man who was in a City
merchant bank, and getting Mary to introduce him to a playboy financier
much mentioned in Private Eye.  He sought contacts and information
wherever he went, storing up the most trivial information in case it
should link up with something else.  His appetite for conspiracy was
whetted by the merchant banker's remarks about the financier, and by
rumours that he was involved in arms deals from America enroute to the
IRA.

"Oh, there's Charley Ransom," Mary said, tugging at his arm.

"I don't think I'll introduce you, darling.  She's a real man-eater."
Jeremy looked across at the girl who had just come in.  He didn't like
red hair, but she was startlingly beautiful.  The description of a
man-eater didn't recommend her.

"You don't have to worry about me," he said.

"Her sister works in the Ministry too," Mary said.

"There was quite a scandal in the Graham family when Charley walked off
with the sister's fiance."

"Did you say Graham?"  he asked her.

"Yes, she was Charlotte Graham before she got married.  I've never met
the sister; she's some kind of high-powered secretary.  Come on,
darling, of course I'll introduce you I was only joking."

"All right," Jeremy said casually. He followed Mary and found himself
standing next to the beautiful girl with the hair he didn't like.  There
were several men circling round her.  He saw Mary kiss her; it was a
habit that mystified him.  He disliked the social kiss between men and
women; when two females did it, it was either hypocritical or pointless.

"Jeremy Spencer-Barr, this is Charlotte Ransom."

"Charley, please," the girl said.

"Charlotte's such a mouthful."  She gave him a dazzling, friendly smile.
Graham, a high-powered secretary in the Ministry of Defence.  He just
wanted to make sure.  He was mentally recalling Davina Graham on the one
occasion they had met, and he couldn't see any family likeness to
Charlotte Ransom. Except, of course, the hair.  Not as red or as
abundant, but similar in colour.  Darker, more auburn.

"I hear you have a sister who works in the Defence Ministry," he said.

"I work there too.  I wonder if we've met."

"I don't know have you?  Davina never talks about her work.  Funnily
enough I've seen her this weekend at home."

"Really.  It's a big place and there must be a lot of Grahams working
there. Who's her boss?"

"An old family friend.  Brigadier James White.  Have you been away or do
you spend the weekends in London?"  she asked.  Men didn't usually talk
about a third person when they met her.  She thought- him quite
good-looking, but rather cool.

"Yes, unfortunately.  I don't go away all that often.  I think I have
met your sister- what a coincidence.  She isn't like you, if I may say
so." Charley accepted the compliment and decided not to move away just
yet.

"We're not really alike," she said and laughed.

"She's the serious one.  I'm the one who gets into mischief."

"Lucky mischief," Jeremy responded quickly.  He saw the gratification in
her smile and called her a silly cow in private.  He hated women who
demanded flattery.

"Where have you been then?"  he said.

"Where's home?"

"My parents live near Salisbury," Charley answered.

"We've got a darling old house there, where Davy and I were brought up.
I adore going back whenever I can tear myself away.  I'm just in the
middle of a divorce, and it's too depressing and dreary.  You're Mary's
friend, aren't you?  I've heard a lot about you."

"I hope it's good," he said.

"Oh, yes apparently you're quite something, Mr. Spencer-Barr.  Lucky
Mary."

"Yes, aren't I?"  Mary Walker said.  She slipped her arm through
Jeremy's and gave Charley a sweet smile.

"I'm trying to think when or where I met your sister," Jeremy said. What
the hell was she doing away for the weekend did that mean she'd been
taken off Sasanov, and if so, who had replaced her?

"She's not married, is she?  Some people go on using their maiden names
when they're working."

"No," Charley said.

"She's not married." She was becoming bored again with the return to
Davina as a subject, and poor Mary Walker standing guard over her
property in case he was lured away.  The remark that followed was
defensive, because Mary Walker knew what had happened with Richard; also
there was a pause, and Charley liked to keep a conversation going.

"She had a rather peculiar Pole staying the weekend too," she said
gaily.

"I just had a feeling romance was in the air.  Not that she'd admit
anything, of course.  Next thing we know, she'll be whizzed behind the
Iron Curtain." There was a general laugh in which Jeremy joined.  A
Pole.  good God above could it be?  He needed a moment to think and
recover himself.  He offered to get them drinks and slipped away.  A
Pole.  it must be Sasanov; there was no other explanation.  A weekend
away from supervision, introduction to a family.  Romance in the air. He
must have broken and committed himself to cooperating with the West. And
if that supremely vain and superficial girl was right, the minder had
become the mistress.  He went back with three glasses and a bright
smile.  The rest of the platitudes and party conversation floated over
him.  He let Mary steer him away, and then pretended to be going to the
lavatory to get away from her.  He came back into the room and passed
Charlotte Ransom who was holding court over a group of grinning men.  He
touched her lightly on the arm.

"We're leaving in a minute," he said.

"Could I phone you some time?" It was such a normal occurrence for other
women's men to make approaches to her, that Charley didn't even
hesitate.

"I'd love that," she said.

"I'm in the book.  Portman Place."

"I'll be in touch," Jeremy murmured, and passed on.  A few minutes later
he left the party.  He took Mary out to dinner and was especially nice
to her. Compared to women like Davina Graham's sister, she was pure
gold.  If it hadn't been for his career, he really would have married
her.  As it was, he was going to telephone Charlotte Ransom and take her
out to dinner.  He was going to New York in a fortnight and he hadn't
any time to waste.  Davina took Sasanov back early on Monday morning.
Both parents stood outside the front door, waving politely as they drove
away.  Her father had been noticeably cool to her, and her mother fussed
to make up for it.  The last part of the visit had been less successful
than the beginning, and she connected the change in atmosphere with her
sister's early departure.  If Sasanov was aware of a strain between
them, he didn't comment.  He had accompanied Mrs. Graham on a long tour
of her garden, and she whispered to Davina later that she found him
really charming and most interested in plants.  He rumpled his bed in
the morning to pretend that he had slept in it, having spent the Sunday
night with Davina. She glanced in the driving mirror as they swung out
onto the main road, and noticed a grey Audi following them.  It had
picked them up as soon as they drove out of March- wood; it would remain
with them until they were safely behind the gates of Halldale Manor.
Sasanov had seen her look in the mirror and he had noticed the escorting
car.

"Back to the cage," he remarked.

"Not for long," Davina said quickly.

"As soon as you've reached an agreement with the Brigadier, you can
choose where to stay.  I think I'll go up this afternoon and see him."

"You should be promoted for this," Sasanov said.

"I don't mind about that," she answered.

"I just want everything to work out well.  I want you to have your
family with you, and to give us your full cooperation.  That'll be my
reward."

"You like a happy ending," he said.

"Like the fairy stories?  Russian stories don't have happy endings.  The
witch turns into a wolf and eats the children." She glanced at him, and
then concentrated on the road.

"You're the most morbid person I've ever met," she said.

"You love looking on the black side.  I think you do it just to annoy
me."

"Perhaps I do," Sasanov admitted.

"Perhaps I am just superstitious, and afraid of tempting the fates."

"There's no such thing as fate," she said firmly.

"People make their own destinies.  Fate didn't bring you to England, you
decided to come. And it certainly won't be fate that gets your wife and
daughter out of Russia!  "

"What will it be if you fail?"

"We won't fail," she said.

"I promise you." She didn't know what made her think of Peter Harrington
on her way up to London.  Perhaps it was her own success contrasting
with his failure and depression; on impulse she rang through to his
section in Personnel while she was waiting to see the Brigadier, and
suggested they meet for a drink afterwards. As soon as she walked into
his office, James White knew that she had come to report success.  There
was an air of confidence about her, of buoyancy, that was unusual.  He
gained his impressions in a few seconds, while he got up and shook
hands, and she settled into the chair in front of his desk. He smiled at
her and before she could begin, he said, "You've made progress, Miss.
Graham.  I can see that you're pleased about something. The weekend went
off well?  "

"It was the catalyst we needed," she said.

"He's ready to make a deal with you."

"Congratulations," he said gently.

"How did you do it?"

"He did it himself," she said.

"He reached his crisis point and I happened to be there.  He wants his
wife and daughter brought over here.  Then he'll co-operate fully with
us, for the next two years.  He doesn't want to settle in England after
that; he doesn't like it here. My guess is somewhere like Canada.  " The
Brigadier didn't answer at once.

"The wife and daughter..."  he said slowly.

"That's a pity." Davina looked at him.

"Why?  Nothing's happened to them, has it?  My God, I promised him they
were all right!"

"And so they are, as far as we know," James White answered.

"Did you guarantee we'd be able to smuggle them out?"

"I had to," she said flatly.

"Otherwise he wants to go home.  And he means it.  I don't know if you
can prevent him."

"Not with our present Home Secretary," the Brigadier said sourly.

"And unless he's willing, he's useless to us.  But you've done very
well; I do congratulate you.  Taking him home was your idea, and I must
confess I thought it rather an odd thing to do.  But obviously you
judged the situation absolutely right.  When had I better see him?  Is
he ready now?  "

"Not ready to do more than whet your appetite," Davina said firmly.

"He's made his terms quite clear.  I think it would be a good thing to
keep the momentum going; he just might slip back and get depressed if
nothing happens quickly.  He'd like to meet you and start preliminary
talks."

"We can arrange it now," the Brigadier said.  He looked at his desk
diary, and frowned.

"This week, you think...  hmmm.  Thursday seems possible, with a little
juggling."  He switched on his desk intercom. His secretary answered.

"Change my late afternoon appointments for Thursday, will you?  No,
never mind, put them off till the next week.  Yes.  Thank you."

"Will you come down?"  she asked him.

"No."  He considered for a moment.

"No, I think it would be less conspicuous if we met in London.  At my
club.

I go there once or twice a week anyway, and nobody is going to suspect
anything unusual.  They certainly won't expect to see Sasanov walking
into the Garrick at five o'clock on a Thursday."  He gave a little
chuckle.

"Put a hat and some spectacles on him and deliver him there on Thursday.

I'll arrange for a security cover for both of you.  You wait in the car
and I'll be in the hall to meet him at five o'clock." He got up to end
the interview; his eyes were bright and friendly.

"You're a clever girl," he said gently.

"I knew I was right in giving him to you." There was a few seconds'
pause, while he looked at her, and didn't put out his hand to shake
hers.  She felt suddenly that he was going to ask the one question she
didn't want to answer.  Which was irrelevant anyway.  But the Brigadier
said nothing.  He shook hands with her, and walked with her to the door.

"Keep him happy till Thursday," he said. She went out of the room
wondering exactly what that last remark had meant. He couldn't know;
there was no way he could find out that Sasanov had made up his mind
after making love to her.  In the best tradition of female spies, she
thought, and smiled to herself as she went down in the lift to Personnel
to pick up Peter Harrington. Peter rejected the local pub as a suitable
place to talk over a drink.

"To hell with the expense," he said, grinning at her.

"We're going to get pissed in style this time- I'm taking you to a dark
romantic little bar in wicked Jermyn Street."

"Jules'," she said.

"I know, it's your second home when you're in London.  It's a pound
every time you eat an olive.  I suppose I'm put down to expenses?"

"You are," he agreed.  He watched her as she drove up Pall Mall.  She
seemed relaxed, less shut into herself.  Quite an attractive woman, he
decided, and was surprised at the way his imagination was working.  He
had never thought of Davina Graham in the nude before.  They settled
into a corner in the little bar, and he ordered a vodka martini for her
and a whisky for himself. The waiter brought a dish of olives, and she
took one and laughed.

"How's life in the country?"  he said.

"Very good," she answered.

"It seems to suit you," he remarked.

"I know you can't talk about what you're doing, so I'll tell you all the
deepest secrets of Personnel."

"Tell me about New York instead," she said.

"Has Spencer-Barr gone out yet?"

"No, he hasn't.  Due in a fortnight or so.  He called in and asked me
out to lunch.  To brief him on my contacts."

"Did you go?"  She sipped the martini.

"Yes, I went.  I chose the most expensive things on the menu, drank
myself stupid, and gave the sod the bare minimum.  He knew it, too, but
he couldn't say anything.  He just paid the bill and walked off.  I wove
my way back to the office and fell asleep over the Bs in the
card-index." Why the Bs?  "

"I don't know," he said.

"I must have been trying to look him up hoping his name was Barikov, or
something. Anyway he'll have no joy at all, with my Rumanian.  He'll
turn on that upper-class public-school charm, and Gregory Vitescu will
run a mile. Three years' ground work chucked away.  The East German may
take to him; he wants money and he'd trust the type.  Personally I hope
he makes a real cock-up of both of them.  " He swallowed a lot of his
drink.

"I've never hated anyone before.  But I hate him; I wonder why?"

"Because he's a conceited, ruthless little climber," Davina said.

"And you told me, he walked all over you when he got the posting. That's
reason enough."

"Yes, I suppose it is," he muttered.

"And yet it isn't, quite.  I've met shits like him before; they're in
the Service like everywhere else.  Run you down without a backward look.
All right, I was furious at the way I was recalled; I hated having some
bloody jumped-up new boy put in, so he can get the credit for the hard
work I did. But apart from all that, I just get a gut-feeling when I'm
with him that he's nastier and more unscrupulous than anyone I've met in
a long time. And he's young, Davina - fifteen years younger than I am. I
ought to be able to wipe the floor with him."

"I wonder how he feels about you?"  she asked.

"Don't underestimate yourself, Peter; you can be quite a hard- nose,
too."

"He despises me," Harrington answered.

"He despised me for getting drunk and showing I minded when we had
lunch.  He despised me for trying to hold back anything he'd find
helpful.  He knew exactly what I was doing.  I told you, outside the
bloody restaurant, he just turned his back on me and walked away."

"You mustn't let it get to you like this," she said slowly.

"He's going out there and if he makes a mess of your two contacts, the
Brigadier won't find any excuses.  Forget about him, Peter.  Why don't
you enjoy yourself, now you've got a bit of time?  I remember you
moaning about missing Test matches, and longing to get married but who
would put up with the life all that sort of thing. Kicking isn't going
to do you any good.  Work away at Personnel; grin and bear it and wait
for the little beast to fall on his face.  Then you can go to the Chief
and gently remind him about your old job.  " He smiled and reached out,
squeezing her hand.  He held on to it, until she pulled it away.

"You're a wonderful girl, Davy.  And you're dead right, of course.  I'm
in the dog-house and the more I grumble, the longer I'll stay there.
What I really need is a new assignment something I can get hold of, and
prove I'm not finished.  Do you know that's one of the things White said
to me?

"You're not a young man any more, my dear chap. Spencer-Barr has youth
on his side.  " As if experience didn't count.. Waiter?  Two more,
please." Davina leaned back and said casually, "How much did you drink
in the States, Peter?" He jerked round to look at her.

"What the hell do you mean how much did I drink?  Who's been talking to
you behind my back?"

"You have," she said.

"Listen, Peter, I'm fond of you, and we've known each other for a long
time. But I'm not going to sit here listening to you moaning and
groaning unless you tell me the truth.  Was your drinking a factor or
not?"

"Oh, well, hell yes, I suppose it was," he said sulkily.

"I got a bit of a reputation, and the word got back.  It never made any
difference to my work everyone in New York and Washington gets pissed
out of their minds now and then.  It had nothing to do with it."

"They don't get pissed when they're trying to recruit two double agents
in high-sensitivity areas," she said.

"Why don't you face that, to start with?  Stop drinking.  Be seen to
stop drinking.  Never mind what's wrong with Spencer Barr Take a good
look at yourself, Peter, and for God's sake either put the cork in the
bottle, or resign from the Service and do something else!"

"My God!"  He stared at her aggressively.

"My God, I'm glad I asked you out for a drink!  Any more lectures before
I pay the bill?"

"I asked to see you, as it happens," she said calmly.

"And I've had an idea, but there's no point discussing it with you if
you're going to be adolescent.  Spencer-Barr may be fifteen years
younger than you, but he struck me as fully grown-up.  Get me some
cigarettes, will you?" The waiter had brought their second drinks, and
she waited for Harrington's reaction.

"What do you like?"  he said sullenly.

"Twenty Benson and Hedges," he said when she told him.

"I'd just like to know," he said, 'why you've suddenly decided to kick
me where it hurts.  " She gave him a cigarette and lit it for him.

"I'm not trying to hurt you, you idiot.  I'm giving you very good
advice. You're a Service man;

you wouldn't know what to do outside it.  I wouldn't either and I
haven't been in it half as long.  You've let yourself slip, Peter.
That's why you were recalled.  You're far too young and too valuable to
be retired, and that's what will happen.  Don't think Spencer Barr won't
have dropped hints about the lunch- he's just the type.  Go on the wagon
and make sure everyone knows it.  And keep yourself fit.  You've got
flabby.  "

"Oh, Christ," Harrington moaned.

"What are you suggesting a run round the park every morning?" Davina
sipped her drink and smiled.

"It's an idea," she said.

"You might need to run for it one day."

"What on earth are you talking about?"  he said.  He had stopped being
angry.

"I told you, I've got an idea.  Nothing may come of it;

but nothing will, unless you pull yourself together.  You want to get
back to active work, don't you?  "

"Yes," he said.

"I'd give anything and you're right, I've let myself slip.  You can't
tell me any more?"

"No, not till I've thought it out properly.  And I'm afraid I can't say
anything till I've sold it to the Chief."

"You won't find it very easy to sell me," he said.  He picked up the
whisky and looked at it.

"I don't want to waste it," he said.

"Especially as it seems likely to be my last." He drank it, and pushed
the empty glass away across the table.

"I'm sorry if I was rude to you, Davy.  I just wasn't expecting to be
told I'd turned into a boozy slob."  He grinned at her, half
defensively.

"Even though it's true.  Do you have to get back or will you stay and
let me buy you a nice dinner?  I'd really like to to say thanks, for
helping me. And just incidentally because I'm bloody lonely and I think
you're looking particularly good tonight.  Stay, won't you?" She
hesitated.  He looked even more bedraggled and tired, and the hand
holding his cigarette was shaking slightly.  She knew it would annoy
Sasanov if she came home late.  The empty glass stared at her like an
eye.

"I'll make a call to see if everything's all right," she said.

"There's a booth at the back there," he said.

"Nice and private for making lovers' trysts and phoning up a tart for
the evening.  Here's some change." She dialled the private number at
Halldale, and immediately Roberts answered.

"It's me," she said.

"Put him on, will you, please?" There was a pause, and then Sasanov's
voice came through.  She didn't let him talk.

"I won't be back till late," she said.

"I'm having dinner here."

"Why?  I am expecting you."  She heard the irritation and allowed
herself a little smile.

"I'm trying to make arrangements," she said.

"Travel arrangements.

I'll be back about twelve.  I'll look in to see if you're awake.  "

"I'll wait for you," Sasanov said.

"In your room."

"No," Davina said hurriedly.

"No, don't do that.  I'll explain later.

I'll come to you.  " She hung up.  Explain- about the bugs and the
two-way mirror, monitored by Roberts and his assistant.  She thought of
the word Sasanov used.  A cage. Now it was a cage for them both.  She
went back and sat down with Peter Harrington.  She managed a cheerful
smile.

"That's fixed," she said.

"Good," he looked pleased.

"Tell me one thing don't you get sick of having to hold his hand?"
Davina shook her head.

"No comment; that's classified information. Where are we going to eat? I
feel like spaghetti and red wine.  "

"And that is what you'll have," he said.

"Let's go, shall we?  I know a nice little place in Lower Belgrave
Street." Outside in the street he took her arm.

"But I'm right about one thing," he said, guiding her across the road.

"There's something wrong with Spencer Barr Elizabeth Cole had worked as
a filing-clerk in the Moscow Embassy for three years.  She was a plump,
friendly girl with a regular boy-friend on the security staff; she
blended well into her background, and was regarded as efficient but not
too intelligent.  She had worked for SIS since she was twenty-two, and
had been recruited into White's organization by an uncle. Her uncle had
parachuted into France with the Special Operations Group, and he
remained in close contact with his colleagues.  Like all her paternal
family, Elizabeth Cole was bilingual in French;

her grandmother came from La Boule, and her children and grandchildren
maintained their French language and affiliations.  Outwardly there was
nothing Gallic about Elizabeth; she was as typically English as cheese
and pickles it was a description she published about herself.  She
worked in the filing section of the Embassy and her true function was to
maintain contacts with the Russian dissidents in the capital. She was
given her instructions by the chief Intelligence Officer in the Embassy
and at three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon she set off.  She shopped at
Gum first, spending a long time on buying a poor-quality sweater which
she didn't want.  Then she took a bus and went a little cafe.  She chose
an empty table, ordered tea and sweet cakes, and opened her Russian
newspaper while she waited.  Fifteen minutes later, a young woman joined
her.  She too, ordered tea.  The cafe was filling up with casual
customers, tired and thirsty.  The volume of noise increased, as the two
women talked. Elizabeth knew that the girl was a former lecturer in
economics at Moscow University.  She had been suspended for signing a
petition for the release of the imprisoned poet Vladimir Bokov.  She was
in disfavour but not yet deeply suspect.  It was hoped to rehabilitate
her at the University.

"What news of Sasanov's family?"  Elizabeth asked her in French.  The
other girl didn't speak good English.

"They haven't been harmed.  They're still living in their apartment. The
daughter is still allowed to go to her classes.  "

"Can you get a message to them?"

"I don't know.  It would be very difficult.  I can't approach them
myself."

"Could you find somebody else?"  Elizabeth asked.

"We don't want to risk one of our people."

"Nobody goes near them but police spies."

"What is the daughter's attitude?  Can you find that out?"

"I have friends in the University," she said.

"They are trying to get me reinstated.  I have to publish a retraction
and an apology."  Her eyes filled with tears.

"If I'm going to fight them, it has to be done from inside.  I will do
what they want.  I can make inquiries about Sasanov's daughter.  If
she's safe to contact, I can maybe get a message to her in the
University.  Otherwise, it can't be done.  They are being watched at
home, and Sasanov's wife hardly ever goes out."

"If you can find someone we can trust, someone in the University,"
Elizabeth Cole murmured.

"This is very important."

"I know it is," the Russian girl answered.

"We know that Sasanov tried to help poor Jacob Belezky.  Wherever he is
or whatever has happened to him, it's our duty to help his family if we
can.

I'll meet you here next week and tell you what progress I've made."

"Thank you," Elizabeth said.

"And take care." The girl smiled sadly.

"I'll do my best.  It's the hypocrisy, the lies, thinking what Bokov
will feel when he hears I've abandoned him.  "

"He'll understand," Elizabeth said.

"I'll go now.  I'll be here at the same time next Tuesday.  Good luck."
She paid for her tea, gathered her shopping-bag and newspaper and went
out into the sunny Moscow streets.  The Security Police had stopped
following her a long time ago.  She had established a routine of buying
something at Gum on her day off and relaxing in the same cafe over a cup
of Russian tea.  She had never met anyone there, or varied her routine
for the first year of her posting.  By which time she was classified as
filing-clerk, and of no political importance.  The word that she was
clear took a little time and a very circuitous route to reach London.
When it did, the cafe was chosen as her rendezvous with fellow agents.
The Soviet dissidents were part of a closed circle of Russian society,
where the different grades tended to mix exclusively with their own
kind.  The dissidents came from the upper intelligentsia, from those
artists and scientists whose privileged position in the Soviet hierarchy
encouraged them to challenge authority.  What the humble people thought
of liberty and human rights had no chance of being heard.  Jacob Belezky
became the friend and confident of Bokov the poet and Scherensky the
physicist.  The dissidents had become a group and they were making their
opinions public to the West.  Arrests, imprisonment, false accusations
of treason and heavy punishments failed to silence their protests.  The
infamy of psychiatric punishment had replaced the traditional agony of
Siberia as the worst fate for a Russian. But a few brave voices cried
for justice; as one was silenced, so another spoke up.  The young
lecturer was a rarity.  She was going to renounce her dissident views
and become an agent for the West.  When she was fully recruited
Elizabeth Cole would pass her on to another controller. She signed
herself into the Embassy, humming cheerfully and later she added the
sweater to a trunkful of shoddy clothes that she would never wear.
Sasanov was bored by television.  He had eaten alone, complaining to
Roberts about the food and demanding more drink to be sent up.  He read
the newspapers again and threw them aside.  The television news was full
of gloomy economic predictions and followed by a turgid drama with
four-letter words instead of dialogue.  He was irritable and uneasy
because Davina hadn't come back.  She was talking about travel
arrangements.  The meaning was obvious and he suspected it was not true.
The delay was part of a campaign to undermine him; she was waiting for
the Brigadier's answer, and either he hadn't given the assurance Sasanov
wanted, or he was preparing a counterproposal, which Sasanov decided to
reject on principle. Pessimism had been gaining on him throughout the
day.  It had begun on the drive back from Wiltshire, when the
frustrations of life at Halldale were already closing in on him.  He
felt unsettled and suspicious, and the longer he waited for her the more
uncompromising his attitude became.  He knew he had deliberately chosen
to defect to England rather than the States; it had seemed marginally
less treacherous to ally himself with a country that was only a
secondary enemy of his own.  He had fled when the opportunity arose;
what he now had to give the head of SIS, in exchange for his
resettlement with his family, was the key to Western recovery, if not to
its survival.  He could make his gesture in memory of Jacob Belezky and
all the other victims of totalitarian tyranny.  He could rank in his own
eyes with the Russian patriots who had defied the Tsarist autocracy only
to be betrayed by the beneficiaries of their struggle.  He could live at
peace with himself if he could strike that vital blow at his country's
political system. But he wasn't going to give it for nothing.  He got up
and began to pace round the room.  Where was she?  And why did she warn
him not to go to her room?  Was even that comfort to be denied him, just
because they thought he had weakened and pledged himself too quickly. He
poured a vodka and drank it down; on an impulse of bad temper, he tossed
the glass into the grate.  He looked at his watch;

it didn't seem to be late, but it felt as if he had been waiting for
hours. He was damned if he was going to bed, and let Roberts and his
cronies tuck themselves away for the night. He rang the bell and Roberts
appeared in the doorway.

"I want vodka, pickles, black bread and sausage," Sasanov said.

"I'm hungry."

"I'll bring it up," Roberts said woodenly.  Sasanov snarled at him under
his breath and turned away.  How well he knew that type; the concrete
face, the toneless voice, the over-developed muscles under the jacket.
When the tray was put in front of him, he didn't look up or speak. Very
clever of them to send a woman to soften him.  She had a way of meeting
his moods and providing the right stimulus.  He ate some of the food and
drank the vodka.  When he came home in the evening, his wife always had
tea, black bread and vodka ready for him.  She used to pour out the
drink and cut the bread, and dip it into the salt for him.  He had
always found her loving and protective; there were times when he liked
to be a child and let her pet him.  His daughter spoiled him, too. His
home was a bastion against doubt and self-disgust; his wife understood,
without needing to be told, how he was ripping himself to pieces because
of Belezky.  She would come to the West. He was certain she would come.
He pretended not to hear the door opening; he let Davina reach the sofa
before he looked up.

"You shouldn't have waited," she said.

"I drove back as quickly as I could."

"You seem pleased," he said.

"You're smiling.  I hope you can make me smile too."

"I think I can," she said.

"Why are you eating at this hour; didn't you have any dinner?" Her
concern mollified him.  He held out his hand to her, and when she took
it, he pulled her down to the sofa beside him.

"I missed your company," he said.

"You are prettier than Roberts."

"Thank you."  Davina bowed her head.

"I can see you've been in a perfectly bloody mood.  Never mind.  Give me
a drink and I'll tell you what happened." Sasanov listened without
interrupting.

"So we meet next Thursday.  Is this club a safe place?  Will you be
there?"

"No, I'm the driver, that's all.  The club is a marvelous rendezvous. No
one is going to expect you to walk in, I can promise you.  And he's very
receptive; I made it clear that you wanted your family, and that unless
they came, you would prefer to go back and take your chance.  He knows
exactly what the position is, and he didn't quibble at all.  "

"What does quibble mean?"  he asked.

"I don't know that word."

"I'm sorry; it means hesitate, argue.  Your English is so good I take it
for granted."

"Five months of talking with you has helped," he said.

"We find English very difficult."

"Well, you can see things are moving," she said.

"You won't be in this cage for long.  Aren't you happy about it?"

"Yes," he answered slowly, 'yes, I think I am happy.  Now we can go to
bed.  " She put a finger to her lips and shook her head.  She found
paper and a biro in her bag and wrote on it.

"We must be discreet.  The rooms are bugged.  I didn't say anything
about that.

"He read it and wrote underneath.

"I'll come to you later.  Why didn't you tell him?"  She scribbled a
sentence in reply.

"Because it's none of his business."  He looked up at her and then
screwed the paper into a long twill.  She thrust it into the fire.  He
came behind her and kissed the back of her neck.

"Goodnight," he said.

"Goodnight," she answered.

"Sleep well." They went to their separate rooms and the security staff
allowed a decent interval and then retired to bed.  While Davina waited
for him, she justified to herself her reasons for not telling White that
she was sleeping with Sasanov.  It was not relevant; it was incidental,
and she was therefore entitled to withhold it.  The fact that they were
lovers had nothing to do with Sasanov's decision, or the terms on which
he would co-operate fully with the SIS.  Quite the reverse, if you
considered his insistence on his wife and daughter joining him. What
happened between him and Davina was an interlude before that reunion.
Professionally she was just as detached as she had ever been. The fact
that they were lovers need not affect or concern anyone but themselves.
She didn't switch on the light or speak when he opened the door.  He
climbed into bed beside her and she put her arms round him. The porter
at the Garrick Club was a jovial, bearded man with a sense of humour and
an individual style of dealing with the members.  He approached the big
foreign-looking man standing in the outer hallway. Hearing the
Brigadier's name, he nodded and led the guest up the short flight of
steps to the main hall.

"He's in the members' room upstairs, sir.  Up the main staircase; it's
the door on your right."

"Thank you," Sasanov said.  He didn't hurry; he appraised his
surroundings with interest. There was no comparable institution in
Russia, no relic of the Tsarist past that compared with the supremely
English institution of a gentleman's club. The Garrick itself was a
magnificent building, the interior of the main hall decorated with busts
in bronze and marble with inscriptions underneath that made no sense to
Sasanov as he paused to read them.  The main staircase was majestic, and
hung with portraits and scenes from famous plays of the past. He paused
on the top landing beside a display case glittering with paste jewellery
and objects of extraordinary variety, from a lady's fan to a lock of
greying hair.  There was nothing of great value in the glass cases, but
references to Shakespeare enlightened him a little; the Brigadier's club
had connections with the theatre.  Sasanov couldn't imagine anything
less appropriate to the head of Britain's Intelligence Service than a
setting of eighteenth-century flamboyance. He went into the room the
hall porter had described, and found it enormous, with a high, gilded
ceiling, walls covered in pictures, and a few ugly mahogany tables and
red leather chairs and settees.  A central table displayed the latest
newspapers.  He saw a man rise from the far end of the room and
recognized Brigadier James White.  They had met briefly on his arrival
in England.  Little had been said on that occasion; they had circled
each other mentally, in readiness for the encounter that had now come.
There were only two other people in the room besides themselves; an old
grey-haired man talking earnestly to a younger one.  The acoustics of
the room made it impossible to distinguish a word of their conversation.
James White held out his hand, and Sasanov shook it.

"Sit down," the Brigadier said.

"Can I offer you some coffee, and a brandy perhaps?"

"Coffee, thank you," Sasanov said.  He could have the brandy later.
James White leaned back in his chair and looked at the Russian with an
expression of calm satisfaction.

"I'm very pleased to hear you have reached a decision, Colonel," he
said.

"Miss. Graham gave me a most encouraging report."

"Miss. Graham is always optimistic," Sasanov said.

"She has a cheerful nature."

"I'm glad you found it so."  The Brigadier smiled.

"She's a very intelligent and dedicated person.  I felt sure you and she
would reach an understanding.  She tells me you have decided to
co-operate with us and remain in the West.  I hope that wasn't the
optimism you mean?"

"No," Sasanov said'.  "She hasn't exaggerated, Brigadier.  That is my
decision; depending upon one thing, of course."  He lit a cigarette,
offering the packet to White, who refused.

"Your wife and daughter's safe arrival in the West," James White said.

"And a choice of final home and identity for all of you after two
years." Sasanov blew smoke and watched it rise and disappear.

"Are these conditions acceptable?"

"Acceptable, certainly," James White answered.

"But possible is another matter.  We're both professionals, Colonel, and
you know even better than I do how difficult it is to extract Soviet
citizens from Russia."

"It is not impossible," Sasanov said flatly.

"You've done it before."

"With people like yourself," White reminded him.

"Not a woman and a girl."

"I know it's difficult," Sasanov answered, 'but it's your business to
overcome the difficulties if you want the information I can give you.  "

"Oh, we want it," White said quietly.

"We want it very badly, Colonel. But before I commit my Service to such
a dangerous enterprise inside the Soviet Union, I would like more
details of this information.  " Sasanov leaned back in his chair, and
puffed the last of his cigarette.

"In the last seven years the West's sphere of influence in the Middle
East has been steadily declining.  Zionist sympathies in America were
resented by the Arab world; Soviet hostility to Israel opened doors to
us which had been closed before.  We made very good use of the
opportunities given to us by the Yom Kippur war; our military advisers
were followed by technicians and they joined the political experts who
were already in Egypt, Syria, Libya and Iraq.  War against Israel had
nearly been won;

the Arab world intended to win the next time, and we were going to help
them. British influence was low, America was suspect; the training of
the Palestinians had resulted in a powerful terror weapon which was used
to harass Israel and its friends in the West.  We were coming nearer and
nearer to your oil supplies, Brigadier, and if it hadn't been for Sadat
and Egypt, we would have got them.

"You know all this; you know how America succeeded in dividing Egypt
from the rest of the Arab world, except for the Saudis and Iran, so
Sadat made peace with Israel and threw our people out.  He went to the
West and our work was destroyed.  Our sympathizers and undercover agents
were arrested and imprisoned.  Egypt was lost to us.  So a very
important decision was made in Russia, at the highest level.  A new
campaign to disrupt Western economy was mapped out and the details
finalized.  Libya we had, Iraq and Syria were still ours.  The appeal of
Arab nationalism had been weakened, because of Sadat.  Another cause had
to be found, Brigadier, and we found it- Islam." James White was
watching Sasanov as he talked; his expression was calm and interested,
as if they were discussing matters of no importance the price of cigars
or the merits of the club clarets.

"Iran," he said.

"That was a blow to us, certainly.  But I can't accept that it was
achieved in Moscow and not in Paris and New York, Colonel." Sasanov
smiled.

"The mistakes of our enemies are our good fortune, Brigadier.  That's an
old Russian proverb.  Khruschev used to quote it to annoy your people.
But it was true.  France sheltered Khomeini because she wanted to
embarrass the Americans and then when it seemed the Shah was going to
fall and the Ayatollah come back in triumph, France supported him, to
safeguard her own oil supplies.  America allowed the Shah to fall; not
because they didn't know the revolution was gathering, but because they
thought it would succeed, and they too wanted to be in favour with the
winning side.  We had a lot of luck, Brigadier, but it was our plan and
you know very well how successful it has been.  It was the first move in
a whole series.  "

"And what is the second move?"  White asked him.

"That is what I have to offer," Sasanov said.

"I will give you the details of Soviet intentions in the Middle East for
the next two years, and I will interpret events as they take place and
explain to you the sequences which will follow.  This much I'll give as
a proof of good-will.  The next target is the Saudi royal family."

"I see," White said.

"A complete encirclement of the Middle East oil supply, one source after
another, with a strike at NATO in the heart of it?  Colonel, I think we
will be able to reunite you with your wife and daughter, if I have to go
to Moscow myself.  Shall we shake hands on it?" Sasanov reached out and
they shook hands.  Both had a hard dry grip.

"One more thing, Brigadier."

"Yes?"

"I would like to move from my lunatic asylum."

"Oh dear," the Brigadier said, "I'm sorry you feel like that about it.

I thought you were quite comfortable.  Miss. Graham should have told me."

"I am comfortable," Sasanov said.

"But I am sick of the same little cage, day after day for eight months.
And I have no privacy."

"Well, of course, if Miss. Graham is getting on your nerves" Not Miss.
Graham. Roberts and the others.  I want a safe house, not a cage.  No
bugs, no trick mirrors.  I have to trust you, so you must trust me.  "

"That's only reasonable," the Brigadier said.

"We have a place which I think would suit you while we get this business
organized.  A change all round would be a good thing for you.  I have an
excellent colleague, a first-class chess player as it happens.  " He
saw the quick scowl on Sasanov's face.

"I don't want a chess-player.  Miss. Graham suits me very well.  I don't
want anyone else."

"Very well," James White smiled.

"Just as you wish, Colonel.  We'll walk down together and you leave
first. She's parked outside waiting for you, I believe." He saw Sasanov
pass through the outer door, while he took his time putting on a light
overcoat and a bowler hat.  Davina Graham had done a very good job
indeed, if the Russian's reaction was any guide.  A better job, perhaps,
than she'd admitted to him.  He went down the steps and through the
little hall out into the street.  There were no cars outside the
entrance, only a warden advancing ominously towards a van parked on the
opposite side of the road. Sasanov had gone. The Brigadier liked
walking, and he walked through the garish no-man's-land of Piccadilly
and down towards St.  James's Park.  He had a number of discreet little
houses and flats at his disposal.  He had decided on one which would
suit Sasanov.  A little love-nest for him and the austere Miss. Graham?
The idea amused him and he smiled as he strode along.  But she should
have told him how much Sasanov depended upon her.  Her reticence was a
mistake.  The little smile lingered on his lips; it was not reflected in
his eyes. James Spencer-Barr booked a table in the restaurant of the
Connaught Hotel. It was one of the most expensive places to eat in
London, but undeniably one of the very best.  Its food and service
justified the cost, and besides, this would go down as expenses.  He
collected Charley Ransom at 7.  30, had a drink in her flat, which
interested him, because he liked to see a person against their own
background. Charley's background surprised him; she had discreet good
taste, and the furniture and modern pictures were exceptionally good. He
had to admit that she looked beautiful;

instinctively he resisted her attempts to charm him.  A woman with her
sex-appeal would certainly expect from him more than he could possibly
give.  But if he dismissed the laughing mouth and the huge, seductive
grey eyes, he allowed himself to admire the simple, elegant black silk
dress, the mass of gleaming hair that looked less red in the artificial
light.  They talked about trivialities, and discussed her pictures.

"Presents from my last mistake," she said gaily.

"I chose them, he paid for them.  He loathed modern art; I had a lot of
trouble getting rid of his Neapolitan flower-girls and those ghastly
cardinals merrymaking!"  They both laughed.  By the time they were
settled at their table in the Con-naught, he decided that she was very
amusing.

"I love this place," she said, looking round her.  The way the head
waiter had greeted her showed that she was a constant client.

"It's got such a restful atmosphere, and my goodness, they do spoil you!
I adore being spoiled." Jeremy was sure she did, but he only smiled and
said, "I'm sure people adore spoiling you," which she rewarded with a
sweet smile. They were drinking coffee, and she was deciding to have
Cointreau instead of brandy, when he brought the conversation round to
her sister and the Pole who had stayed the weekend.

"It's extraordinary," he said, 'how different you and your sister Davina
are not just to look at, that's obvious, but as people.  "

"Is that in my favour or not?"  she asked.

"I hope it's not an odious comparison!"

"Quite the reverse," he said.

"She's rather a forbidding type- very cool, I thought.  They think a lot
of her, you know.  She's terribly efficient.  I don't think she'd refer
to her ex-husband as a" mistake"."  They both laughed.

"No, poor lamb, she wouldn't," Charley agreed.

"But then she hasn't had a husband; I'm afraid that was rather my
fault."

"Oh?  Why?"  She made a little grimace; he thought for a moment she was
genuinely embarrassed.

"Her fiance fell in love with me," she said at last.

"I honestly didn't encourage it, but he just wouldn't leave me alone.  I
never wanted to marry him either, but he talked me into it.  Davina's
never forgiven me.  I suppose I can't blame her."

"Oh, I suppose not Jeremy conceded.  He hoped he had kept his amazement
properly concealed.

"But you've been married twice?"

"Richard- that was Davina's boy-friend- Richard and I got divorced after
a couple of years.  He started drinking and his business went to pieces;
we quarrelled all the time.  It was too awful.  I think he knew he'd
made a mistake in choosing me and leaving her.  I rather hoped he'd go
back to her, but he didn't.  This Cointreau is good.  She never made an
effort after that. My father says she turned her back on men
deliberately and set out to make a success of her job.  I must say being
a secretary can't be very exciting, even if your boss is James White.
Anyway, that was years ago and we've kept out of each other's way since.
She didn't come to my second wedding.  Then there she was at home that
weekend, and with this rather attractive man."

"Tell me about him Jeremy said.

"Didn't he fall for you too?" The big eyes opened wide in innocence, but
the giggle redeemed her.

"No, damn it, he didn't!  I quite liked him, too.  He was so different
from the people I normally meet.  Terribly square and rather
overpoweringly male. You know what I mean the Slav type."

"Yes," he said.

"I think I can picture him.  Fair and blue eyes; gold teeth?"

"No, not at all.  Greyish hair, actually, and funny- coloured eyes,
certainly not blue.  And his teeth were perfect." Jeremy grinned at her,
as if he were teasing.

"Short and squat then?"

"Taller than you," she answered.

"And much bigger."

"He sounds like one of those Russian villains in long overcoats and felt
hats in a TV thriller.  " He dismissed the Pole, offered her a cigarette
and ordered himself a second brandy.  She drank very sparingly, and he
approved of that.  He hated women who tried to keep pace with men, or
even to outpace them. He was, and he admitted it, rather a prude at
heart.

"And do you think your sister is mixed up with the Pole, then?" Charley
frowned slightly.  She felt less awkward talking about Davina than she
had done for a long time.  It helped to confess to strangers. And this
smooth-talking man would never be anything else.

"I think so, yes," she said.

"My parents didn't; I think my mother was hoping so; she's terrified
Davina won't get married.  It's rather sweet and old-fashioned, really.
You'd think she'd had enough marriages with me making a mess of it
twice.  But anyway, she didn't think there was anything there but
friendship.  I thought there was.  And I'm not a bad judge when it comes
to lovers."

"Meaning you've had quite a few?"  he challenged. She nodded, and smiled
straight into his face.

"I've had a lot," she said.

"I love men, and I like them to love me.  I always hope I'm going to
find the one-and-only, every time.  So far I haven't.  But it's been
great fun and I don't regret a thing." There was nothing he could say to
that.  The epithet floated to the surface of his mind and just as
quickly disappeared.

"Getting back to your sister," he said.

"Do you think they were living together?"

"You're terribly interested in her, aren't you?"  Charley said lightly.

"You've talked about her most of the evening."

"I know," he said.

"You see, I remembered all about meeting her after I met you at that
party.

I knew the name rang a bell, and of course I'd done more than just bump
into her.  In fact, she and I were interviewed for the same job.  We
spent some time together waiting for the interview.  I thought she was a
confirmed bachelor-girl, and pretty tough, if you don't mind my saying
so.  She told me she lived in a service flat off the Fulham Road.  I
can't marry this Pole up with the woman I met. That's what's so
fascinating.  Especially as she got the job instead of me.

"He finished his brandy.

"She wouldn't have been chosen if they'd known she was having it off
with a man," he said.

"What was the job?"  Charley asked.

"I didn't know she'd been promoted."

"She's White's assistant," he said.

"That's what I was after."

"Oh," Charley shrugged.

"I didn't know anything about that.  But you're not going to go and make
trouble for her, are you?  I mean, it was just my opinion I've no proof
of anything."

"Don't worry, it's far too late to make any difference now," he said.

"She'll be found out anyway.  White keeps a very tight check on anyone
who works for him."

"But is a secretary, or an assistant, so terribly important?  Surely
they're like a civil servant?  You're not in a confidential post, are
you?  I'm sure Davina isn't."

"Neither of us is," he said firmly.

"We're both what you call civil servants.  But that job is big promotion
and I was very keen to get it. So that's why I'm interested in your
sister.  And now I'd much rather pay attention to you.  I won't suggest
a drink at Annabel's because I've got a nine o'clock appointment
tomorrow and I've got to keep a clear head.  "

"I never go to Annabel's," she said gently.

"I hate it.  I much prefer Tramps.  Or Regine's.  Have you been there?"
Jeremy had to admit he hadn't.

"Well, next time, I'll take you.  It's wildly expensive but very smart.
Let's get the bill, shall we?  I don't want you to be tired tomorrow. It
must be terribly important if you need ten hours' sleep."

"It is," he said.

"I'm taking a post with the UN in New York.  I start being briefed
tomorrow." He signalled the waiter and paid the bill. They drove back to
her flat in silence.  Charley looked out of the window and hummed.  She
felt extremely depressed.  Rejection was so rare that she seldom
suffered the pangs of self-doubt and inordinate humiliation which
produced the nervous little tune under her breath.  He was a smug,
smooth bore, totally immersed in himself, and it was ridiculous to mind
because she hadn't made a success with him. Ridiculous and childish. She
couldn't think of one man among the last twenty who'd taken her out, who
had preferred a good night's sleep to an evening dancing with her and
perhaps coming in for a drink.  He shook hands with her in the street,
promised to telephone before he went away, and went off in his car
without noticing that there were tears in her eyes. As soon as he had
engaged the clutch, Charley was out of his mind. Tall, big build,
greyish hair.  A typical Slav.  There was no such thing, in fact, but
she had given him a very good description ofsasanov. And where Davina
Graham was, there would the missing defector be. At home in her flat,
Charley Ransom poured herself a cup of hot milk, and swallowed a
sleeping pill.  She allowed herself a little childish weep before she
drifted off.

"Don't," Davina protested, 'do that when I'm driving!  " She heard
Sasanov laugh beside her.

"Why not?  You don't mind other times."  He looked at her profile turned
resolutely away from him, concentrating on the traffic ahead.  But her
lips were turned up in a smile.  He took his hand off her knee.

"You're a bad driver," he said.

"You can't keep your mind on the other cars."

"Much hope when you're getting in the way," she retorted.  Her hand left
the steering-wheel, and slapped his lightly.

"I know you're in a good mood, because you're always impossible.
Actually you're impossible when you're in a bad mood.  I just can't
win."

"You've won," he said.

"You've turned me for the British.  That's a big victory for you.  But
I'm happy today.  I see the way ahead for me and my family.  Do you
know, the Brigadier was so anxious to get my information he offered to
go to Moscow and get them himself?"

"Like hell he did," Davina said.

"He won't put his neck in the noose. He'll find someone else for that
little trip, don't worry.  "

"Why are you being so difficult?"  Sasanov complained.

"You should be glad it went well.  Instead you behave like a cross
little school-teacher.  I warn you, when we get back to that cage of
yours, I'm going to behave very badly!" She glanced at him briefly.

"There's nothing different about that," she said. He settled back in his
seat; he felt contented and excited at the same time. He understood her
very well.  Of course she was pleased at the success of the interview.
It was part of the game they sometimes played, to pretend to be at odds
with each other.  Then he thought of Halldale Manor, of Roberts and the
electronic invasion of their privacy, and he sighed. She heard the sigh,
and said quickly, "What's the matter what's wrong?"

"I feel like celebrating," he said sullenly.

"Instead we go back to the old lunatics and the cage.  It depresses me."
She drove on for some minutes without answering.  They were approaching
the route out to the south-east; the traffic was already building up and
they began crawling between traffic lights.

"I don't want you to be depressed," she said.

"We've got to go back to Halldale, but we can stop on the way.  Would
you like that?"

"What do you mean, stop?"  he asked her.

"I mean stop for dinner.  Talk; celebrate.  I can get clearance on the
radio. Would you like that?" He nodded at her reflection in the
driving-mirror.

"Yes, Vina, I'd like that.  I'd like it better if we could stop for the
night.  I hate making love in silence." Again she drove for a time
without answering.  Then at another halt, caught in a cross-fire of
immobile traffic, she turned to him and said, "I'll ask for that too, if
that's what you want."

"It's what I want," Sasanov said.  He settled back into his seat and
closed his eyes; she didn't know if he had really gone to sleep, but he
didn't move or speak, even when she used the car telephone, connected to
a special exchange. Visiting hours at Halldale Manor nursing-home were
between two and four, and five-thirty to seven.  In the chronic
geriatric ward, a dozen old women in the final stages of senile dementia
lay in their cots, mouthing vacantly or dozing in a drugged trance.  Few
ever had visitors; they passed through the final stages of their lives
in a twilight through which the nurses moved like shadows.  It was so
rare for any relative to come before called to the deathbed that the
grandson of one of the patients aroused a friendly interest among the
nursing staff. He came in to see his grandmother Mrs. Burns quite
unexpectedly one afternoon.  The old lady hadn't had a visit for three
years; she lay propped up on her pillows, mumbling in confusion to
herself, and sleeping.  She had to be fed like a child, and like the
others, she had no bodily control. There was always a faint stench in
the ward, combined with disinfectant and the smell of bodies sweating
their decay through the pores of their skins. He was a nice young man,
who held his grandmother's hand, and didn't seem to mind when she pulled
it away and grumbled that she didn't know him.  A lot of relatives were
distressed by the aggression or the lack of recognition, and didn't come
to the nursing-home again.  The ward sister remarked on the grandson's
devotion to the patient, and he spent some of the time chatting to her,
and drinking coffee with her in her little cubicle at the end of the
room.  He came three times a week, bringing flowers which were arranged
by the old woman's bed, and once he brought a box of chocolates for the
nurses.

"You do such a wonderful job," he said.

"What would become of these poor old people if it weren't for all of
you?" The ward sister began to look forward to his visits; one of the
young nurses eyed him with longing.

"I think it's a shame, the way families neglect their old relatives," he
said.

"I was really upset to hear Granny was in here and my mother hadn't been
to see her for two years.  We don't treat our old people like that in
Ireland." The ward sister, who came from Limerick, agreed with him.  She
felt so sorry for the poor things, left to rot and die; and then when
they did die, the family came round wiping their eyes and pretending to
care. Wouldn't he like a cup of coffee?  He mustn't think Mrs. Burns
didn't enjoy his visits, because she was so confused and didn't know
him.  In fact, she seemed much brighter in herself since he'd been
coming.

"That's all that matters," he said.

"Just so she feels she's not forgotten." At the end of the third week he
asked the young nurse out for a drink when she came off duty.  It took
him nearly a month of seeing her before he learned that there was a
section of the nursing-home which was reserved for violent patients, and
ordinary staff never went near it.

"Gives me the creeps sometimes," she confided to him over a beer in the
Crown at Haywards Heath.

"There's that big wall at the back, and the gate's always locked.  They
have specials looking after the patients in there; they don't mix with
us." Mrs.  Burns' grandson expressed surprise.  And how many people were
locked away, he wondered.  She didn't really know, but the rumour was
not more than one or two.  There was a woman who came in and out, but
whether she was a private nurse or a relative, they didn't know.

"How awful," he said.

"If I wasn't a Catholic, that kind of thing would make me believe in
euthanasia."  He ordered them both another beer. She didn't mean to
break any rules about showing him where the violent wing was; it just
happened as they were strolling round the lovely grounds on a fine
afternoon.  Groups of patients were sitting in the garden; some wandered
about; the sun was shining and the air was beautifully warm.  The
gardens were magnificent, carpeted with daffodils and grape hyacinths;
Mrs. Burns' grandson smiled at anyone he passed, and gently hooked his
arm through the nurse's elbow.

"Is that the place where the poor devils are kept locked up?"  he asked.
And she said no, that was the laboratory, where they did their own
pathology. The other place was over there, behind that high brick wall.
And look, there was the woman she'd mentioned, coming out of the gate.
What a funny coincidence.  , She didn't look like a nurse, though. Fancy
having someone shut up in there and going to see them;

of course, they were able to keep them under drugs now.  He got a good
look at Davina Graham, and agreed silently with the chattering girl that
she didn't look like a nurse either.  He walked on a little faster and
before she got into her car, he lit a cigarette, shielding the lighter
from the breeze which wasn't blowing.  He came back to see his
grandmother twice more, and dashed all the nurse's secret hopes by
telling her he had been sent to Glasgow, but of course he'd write.  The
visits stopped and no letter with a Scottish postmark ever came for the
nurse.  Mrs. Burns mumbled and dozed and the ward never saw an outsider
again.  But the photograph taken of Davina as she got into her car was
studied and identified. Mrs.  Burns' grandson went on working as a
kitchen hand in a South Kensington hotel until Tuesday, 28 April, two
days before Sasanov went to London to see Brigadier White.  He didn't
give notice, he just disappeared; his employer cursed the feckless Irish
and hired someone else.  He had called himself Murphy in London, but he
checked in at a small hotel fifteen minutes from Haywards Heath under
the name of Porter.  This time he had no Irish brogue. He used a
motorbike which made it easy for him to go through the familiar town
without fear of the staff from Halldale recognizing him in crash-helmet
and goggles. It took no more than half an hour of telephoning round the
stores to find out which one delivered groceries to Halldale Manor.  And
that a van was calling later in the afternoon. They would be very
pleased to include a present from him to one of the patients.  He
promised to come in and pay for his order, and hung up. There was only
one van at the back of the shop, with its name painted on the side.  He
tinkered with his motorbike until the driver came out carrying half a
dozen cardboard boxes which he loaded into the back of the van.  When
the doors were closed and the driver went round to the front, the
watcher jumped on his bike, kicked it into action and sped off in
advance.  He waited by the side of the road which led to Halldale; it
was a minor road and there was no one about.  He saw the van
approaching, and advanced into the road, limping and waving it to stop.
The driver didn't get time to speak to the injured motorcyclist;

a blow to his head knocked him flat onto the roadway. The cyclist pulled
him to the verge, stripped off his buff overall and cap. The body was
tumbled into a ditch, out of sight.  The motorcycle was hidden in a
break in the hedgerow, and within five minutes the van was entering the
back drive of Halldale Manor.  The delivery to the nursing-home was in
two sections; four boxes and a small crate for the main house, and a
single box of groceries marked "Halldale Manor Annexe'.  He drove to the
back entrance by the kitchens and, under the eye of a woman he thought
to be one of the cooks, loaded the boxes into the larder, gave her the
bill to sign, and then drove round to the gate set in the high wall.
Inside the back of the van, he slipped a large can in amongst the
groceries for the Annexe; the label said "Garden Peas, Extra Fine'. Then
he carried the box to the gate and rang the bell.  A large man in blue
overalls' answered he held out his arms for the box and took it inside.
He shut the gate without signing anything.  The driver slammed the back
doors of the van, jumped inside and rattled out along the bumpy little
road.  He drove slowly to the place where his bike and the van man were
hidden, satisfying himself that there was nothing coming in front or
behind him.  He dressed the unconscious man in his own overalls once
more, and dragged him quickly into the front seat of his van.  He
started the engine and sent the van crashing into the ditch.  The horn
mechanism jammed, hooting continuously.  The cyclist pulled his bike out
of hiding, mounted it and roared off towards the main London road.
Inside the kitchen that supplied food for Sasanov and the staff, the
cook checked on the items and picked up the tin of peas.  It was not on
his list; he hesitated, and then decided that it wasn't often you got
something for nothing.  They spent enough with the grocer anyway.  He
put the tin on the larder shelf with the other goods. Davina stopped at
a motel on the A415.  Her instructions had been less flexible than she
had hoped, but there was a compromise.  They could spend as long or as
short a time as they wished stopping enroute for Halldale, but they
must-radio in before midnight to say they had returned.  Sasanov was
sulky at first; she ordered him a drink and fussed over him with peanuts
and crisps until he seemed more cheerful. He watched her and at last he
smiled.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I'm disappointed we can't stay the night.  I won't spoil our dinner."

"Well, I was thinking," she said.

"We are at a motel, after all.  We could take a room and leave when we
felt like it..." His eyes gleamed and he touched his glass against hers.

"We could," he said.

"I'd like that."

"So would I," Davina said.

"I'll go and fix it." She booked a room, facing out the receptionist who
smirked as she handed her the key, and as she walked back to join
Sasanov, Davina thought suddenly that she had no qualm of embarrassment
in paying for the use of a bed for a couple of hours.  No embarrassment,
no sense that she was in any way diminished by taking sex at such a
basic level.  They wanted each other and it was natural to make
adjustments so they could be together.

"That's all right," she said.

"I paid for the night.  I was just thinking that if anyone had told me
I'd book a room to sleep with a man in a place like this, I'd have said
they were raving mad.  You've certainly changed me.  "

"Are you sorry?"  he asked her. She shook her head and laughed.

"No.  Not in the least.  I wouldn't have missed you for anything."

"Then why don't we eat quickly?"  he suggested.

"The food will be filthy, and I'm not hungry.  Not for food." The look
he gave her was so frankly sensual that she felt tempted to suggest they
forgot about dinner altogether.  But she didn't and they spent an hour
eating steak and drinking wine, while he teased her by looking at his
watch. In the motel room, she began to get undressed; it was a drab
little place with hideous mock G-Plan furniture and a double bed of mean
proportions. Sasanov stripped quicker than she did; he began to help her
and then changed to making love to her before she was ready.  She had no
restraint with him, no pretensions to false modesty.  He had never given
her time.  She twisted her arms tightly round his neck and lost herself
in him.  At one moment she thought how much this rough, masculine
love-making aroused and satisfied her, and was overcome by tenderness
for him, until the gentler emotion was swept away by mutual passion.  He
slept very briefly, and she lay awake, anchored to the bed by his
weight, and felt again that blend of gratitude and joy which was
perilously close to love. But she mustn't love him.  That would mean
disaster for them both, when his wife and daughter were united with him,
and there was no place for her in his life.  He had liberated her, and
she had no right to try and chain him in return.  She switched on the
ugly little overhead light and he woke.

"It's time we started back," she said.

"Let me get up."  She looked at herself in the little mirror on the
wall, and began to put her clothes on.

"I must do something with my face," she said.

"I look a terrible mess."

"You look like a woman who's been making love," Sas anov corrected her.

"Will you do me a favour?"

"Another one?"  she turned to him, fastening her dress.  He was ready,
sitting on the edge of the rumpled bed, smoking.

"A little one," he said.

"Don't brush your hair back like that.  It looks better down."

"It looks like a gipsy!"  she retorted.

"Untidy hair doesn't suit me." They switched out the lights and left.
She turned on the radio in the car; they were less than forty minutes
away from Halldale Manor when the radio telephone buzzed.  She picked it
up, steering with her right hand. The codesign for her call was
repeated. Sasanov heard her say, "What?  Oh, my God!  Yes, yes, all
right.  I've got that.  Right away." He saw her face in the
semi-darkness, and said quickly, "What's happened what's wrong?"

"There's been a fire," she said.

"The whole Annexe was burnt to the ground.  Nobody got out.  It's still
blazing and we can't go near it. We've got to go back to London;

they've given me an address.  "

"Fire?"  Sasanov said slowly.

"How could it burn so quickly you say nobody was saved?"

"No," she said.

"Think of Roberts and the others- how horrible!" She swung the car round
and sped back towards London.

"There wasn't time to raise an alarm.  Apparently the place went up like
a torch.  Do you realize she glanced hurriedly at him '- if we hadn't
stopped at that motel we'd have been there too?"

"Yes," he answered after a moment.

"That's what they intended.  Slow down or you'll get us killed anyway!
There's only one thing that starts a fire like that.  Not a fire, a
firestorm.  I'm afraid I've been discovered, Vina."

"Oh God," she muttered.

"Don't say that.  How could you be discovered, how could anyone know you
were there?"

"I don't know, but they did," he said.

"Somehow they got a fire-bomb into the Annexe.  It was meant for me.
Where are we going?  "

"To a flat in Shepherds Bush," she said.

"A car's picking us up at the intersection between Putney Bridge and
King's Road.  They'll escort us there.  I'll radio in just before we
cross Putney Bridge.  Don't worry." She laid her hand on his knee.

"Don't worry, you'll be safe.  If this is an attack on you, then we'll
let them think they succeeded.  Don't you see, you'll be really safe
then?" He didn't answer.  He squeezed her hand and returned it to the
wheel.

"You drive too fast," he said.

"You need both hands." They didn't talk again; at the intersection
beyond the bridge, a car in a side road dipped its lights as they
approached and fell in behind them. Sasanov watched the lighted, empty
London streets slip by.  It was nearly two a.  m. The bodies in the
burnt-out Annexe would be identified;

there would be an inquest, managed by White's department everything
would be covered up and officially registered as a gas leak or a major
electrical fault.  The KGB might think they'd killed him.  until whoever
had betrayed him told them he' was still alive. James White had the
pathologist's report on the charred corpses at Halldale in front of him;
he also had the findings of the team of experts on arson and explosives
who had rooted among the smouldering ruins of the Annexe.  Prompt action
by the local fire brigade and the nursing staff had saved the main
buildings and contained the fire.  The story had made all the national
newspapers and both television channels carried stories and on-the-spot
reports of what was described as "Fire Horror in Old People's Home'. One
of the best men in the Department had been put in charge of
investigations.  He was a thin bespectacled figure who looked more like
a teacher than a specialist in the art of sabotage. His name was Fisher,
and he sprawled awkwardly in the chair by the Brigadier's desk, as if he
couldn't compose his long legs and arms in harmony with the rest of him.
The Brigadier put the papers aside.

"Traces of high octane 15; that rules out any possibility of accident,"
he said.

"Certainly does."  Fisher took an unlit pipe out of his mouth.

"That stuff is used in conjunction with Tyron multiple 2; the corrosive
agent has a time-setter for eating through the separating compartments
and allowing the two agents to mingle.  The second they do Boom!  You
get a minor explosion that releases the activated agents, and on contact
with ordinary oxygen you get a chain-reaction that literally sets on
fire the air and everything in it.

"I reckoned that if the device was in the kitchen and it looks from what
we found as if the fire started there it was timed to activate at just
before midnight, when everybody would be upstairs asleep.  They wouldn't
have had a chance of getting out, it spreads so quickly and the heat and
smoke generated is so intense."

"Hmm..."  the Brigadier said.

"Nasty stuff."

"Very nasty," Fisher agreed.

"Makes the old American napalm look like a box of safety-matches.  It's
been used before in cases where they wanted a blanket operation
eliminate everybody at one crack.  It's highly sophisticated stuff, and
only available to the Centre professionals."

"From the police reports," White said, 'there might be a link-up with
the van driver found in his van in the ditch.  He'd apparently just made
a delivery to the nursing-home, and to the Annexe.  What doesn't tie in
is why he should have been going in the wrong direction when he went off
the road.  The other goods in the van were invoiced to a housing estate
leading away from Haywards Heath, not towards it.

"He's also suffered head injuries which don't appear to be related to
his injuries when the van crashed.  I think we'll find something there.
If he recovers enough to tell us anything.  The medical outlook isn't
too good.  He's been unconscious since they found him.  " Fisher
suggested, "Surely a Centre man would have killed him."

"You'd think so although they're not infallible," White remarked.

"I'm sure there's a connection.  Somebody got that bomb into the Annexe,
and it must have been something the staff would have accepted without
question. Like groceries.  I'll get some of our chaps to combine with
the local police. They'll probably come up with something.  But it
doesn't answer the real question."  He lit a cigarette, and Fisher felt
encouraged to light his pipe.

"How did they know Sasanov was there?"  the Brigadier muttered.

"How the hell did anyone know exactly where he was- except for his
minder, the staff at Halldale, and me."

"One of the staff, maybe," Fisher suggested.

"They got done for their pains at the same time.  No chance to
investigate the leak."

"We're looking into that," White said.

"It seems the most likely. Serves whoever it was bloody well right.
Anyway, thanks, Fisher.  I'll take the matter in hand myself.  Thank
your assistants, will you?  They did a splendid job.  " When he was
alone, the Brigadier flicked through the papers, glancing at items at
random; he wasn't really concentrating. Someone had found out where
Sasanov was hiding.  Someone had alerted the KGB.  It would be easy to
imagine that the traitor was on the security staff and had died for his
pains.  But the Brigadier didn't believe it. They had a Mole, and the
Mole had found Sasanov.  If the Russians thought they had now silenced
Sasanov, that was exactly what he wanted them to think. If they made no
further inquiries about their missing delegate, it would connect their
intelligence service with the Halldale fire.  They wouldn't do that; the
Soviet Embassy would make representations to the Home Office and
continue to cause as much trouble as they could over the vanished
Russian. Therefore the charade would have to be played out.  Sasanov
must be produced; his body had, after all, been waiting in cold storage
after the beauty treatments given to it.  White buzzed his secretary and
asked for his friend the Police Superintendent's office number. They
exchanged a few words about their health and their mutual interest in
cricket, and then White said, "By the way, I think we could pop our
frozen fish back into the sea.  Can you arrange that?  And find it in a
day or two, will you?  Oh, thanks, that's fine.  Yes, plenty of
publicity- that's what we want.  How about lunch next week?"  He made a
note in his diary and rang off. The KGB were going to get themselves a
body; if they chose to take it back to the Soviet Union to bury, or
rather to play with to establish its identity, he had no objection. What
he was really concerned about was keeping Sasanov in total isolation,
while he began investigations into whether the Russians' informer had
indeed been burned at Halldale with the innocent, or was at liberty and
watching.

"Irina, would you stay behind?  I'd like to discuss this essay with
you." Irina Sasanova nodded.  The rest of the class of students had put
their books away; the lecture was over.  Her teacher in sociology was a
young man, less dictatorial than the senior lecturer in the subject; he
enjoyed making his students laugh and encouraged a degree of open
discussion which was rare in Moscow University.  She came up to the
rostrum; he had her latest essay on the table in front of him. Seeing
her expression he said, "It's good, don't worry.  I'm not going to give
you a bad mark.  It's just that I see certain lines of thought in your
work recently.  I wondered if you were aware of them, that's all."

"I don't know, Comrade Poliakov.  I'm not conscious of anything.  Please
explain to me."

"Sit down."  He offered her his chair and swung himself up on the edge
of the table.  She had turned rather pale and she looked anxious.  She
was pleasant-looking rather than pretty, but the fair hair and blue eyes
were attractive.  She very seldom smiled these days, and her contacts
with her fellow students were perfunctory.  For the past eight months
she had been under an invisible cloud, as the daughter of a senior
Soviet official who had gone to the West and disappeared.

"You have a definite trend towards individualism," Poliakov said gently.

"Your work emphasizes more and more the role of the State in relation to
the individual, instead of the other way round."  The colour rushed into
her face;

the next moment he would tell her that she was showing signs of
deviation in her political thinking.  He saw the fear in her eyes.

"I'm not aware of it, Comrade; I promise you, if that's what you see in
my essays, it's quite accidental.  Just please point out to me where the
errors are so I can put them right!"

"I don't think they are errors," he said.

"I much prefer the view of sociology that you're expressing, however
tentatively.  I'm not criticizing you, I'm congratulating you.  And I
know how difficult things have been for you in the past months.  Stop
staring at me, Irina Ivanovna, as if I were trying to trap you and
denounce you to the KGB.  " The girl's eyes filled with tears.

"I don't know what you mean," she mumbled.

"I haven't done anything wrong.  I didn't mean to write anything.." He
shook his head.

"There's no word of your father, is there?" She glanced up at him in
panic.

"No.  No, we don't talk about him."

"But losing him has affected you, hasn't it?"  he asked gently.

"Believe me, Irina, I'm taking as big a risk talking to you, as you are
in answering.  Will you trust me?" He didn't know it, but she had been
weaving romantic fantasies about him ever since he became her lecturer.
Daydreaming about him had kept her mind occupied.  This time she blushed
for a different reason.

"Trust me," he said again.

"Please." She nodded, afraid of breaking into tears.

"You miss your father, don't you?"

"Yes..."  It was a whisper.

"And do you think he's dead, or gone over to the West?"

"I don't know," she said.  She hesitated and then said in a rush, "My
mother thinks he's gone over.  She told me he was upset because a friend
had been arrested.  She doesn't say too much.  We try not to think about
it." Poliakov took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.  His hand
trembled slightly as he lit one.  He had gone far enough, and common
prudence advised him to leave the conversation there.  But there was
misery and fear in the girl's face that angered him beyond caution.  He
felt over come by pity and indignation.

"If your father has gone over to the West, what would you feel towards
him? Don't be afraid to answer; don't you see my life is just as much in
your hands now?" She looked up at him.

"Why are you asking me these questions?  How do I know you aren't
working for the police?"

"You don't know," he said.

"You'll have.  to take that chance.  How would you feel about your
father?"

"Ashamed..."  she said slowly.

"But glad too.  Because he was alive."

"Would you ever forgive him see him again if he came home?"

"Of course," she murmured.

"But it wouldn't be possible.  It wouldn't be allowed."

"And would your mother say the same as you?"

"I don't know," Irina answered.

"I can't speak for my mother.  She cries every night, I know that."

"All right."  Poliakov slipped off the table; he gathered her essay
papers in a neat pile.

"I want you to think about one thing.  How would you feel if you could
see your father again.  And how would your mother feel.  Think about it.
I'll talk to you again at the end of next week. Go on now.  " She got up
and for a moment stood in front of him, not knowing how to leave. He
placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Go on," he said gently.

"I have to take another class.  And don't betray me, will you, Irina
Ivanovna?"

"Never," she said.

"Never in my life."  She turned and hurried away, her head bowed to hide
the bright colour and the unshed tears. That evening, Poliakov went
round to a colleague's apartment and, against a loud background of radio
music, told her that he had made the first approach to Sasanov's
daughter and the reaction seemed favourable. She could convey that
message the next time she met Elizabeth Cole from the Embassy. But
before she did so, there was an item published in Pravda and lyiestia
reporting the discovery of Colonel Ivan Sasanov's body washed up on the
beach in the south of England.  It was stated that he had committed
suicide by throwing himself off a nearby promontory called Beachy Head;
the badly decomposed body had been trapped in rocks and only just
released by heavy seas.  The Colonel had been suffering from depression
and had received medical treatment before leaving the Soviet Union with
the trade delegation. The body was being flown back to Russia for
burial.

"Well," Davina said.

"That closes the file for you."  She handed him the English newspaper,
with its secondary headline Soviet Colonel's body found.

"So I'm officially dead," Sasanov said.

"Suicide I see.  And I'm going home to be buried.  What about my family?
They'll believe this they won't trust any approach to them that your
people can make." He threw the paper aside.

"Your Intelligence have got together with ours," he said angrily.

"They've agreed to save everyone's face by accepting a body and saying
it's mine.  Our Service thinks I was burned at Halldale, and your Chief
is pretending that they're right.  This is not what was agreed."

"The fire hadn't happened," she pointed out.

"We probably had to release the body prematurely.  Don't worry about
your family; they'll be contacted and told the truth.  But they've got
to be sounded out first moving too quickly could wreck everything."  She
hesitated, and then decided that he had better face the possibility of
failure.

"Supposing we get a negative response," she said.

"Supposing your wife and your daughter don't want to come over?  You
mustn't take too much for granted.  You've been away eight months.  That
can be a long time to be alone and under suspicion." He looked up at
her, frowning.

"I know my family.  My wife knew what I was planning, even though I
never said it.  She knew when I left for England that I wasn't coming
back.  She won't have turned against me. Neither will my daughter.
They'll come.  " He picked up the newspaper and began to read it.  Dav-
ina didn't argue; she knew that on this one point he was beyond reason.
His family would join him. That was the end of it.  She went out and
made a shopping list. They were living in a block of flats in Shepherds
Bush;

the block was owned and staffed by the Brigadier's department.  People
came and went on short visits; no flats were available to anyone
outside.  They had provided her with a different car after the journey
back from Halldale. To her surprise she and Sasanov had changed over to
the escort car in central London.  One of the security men had driven
hers away. Precautions were very strict.  Sasanov was not allowed to
leave the flat in daylight.  He had to take fresh air and exercise at
night, and wherever he went with Davina, they were shadowed by two armed
men.  The atmosphere became tense between them. They had far less
freedom than at Halldale and Sasanov was fretting at the restrictions.
He re-read the story about the discovery of the body.  burial in Russia.
He imagined the anguish of his wife and daughter and he burned with
anger.  What did Davina mean when she talked of moving too quickly?  He
had been stung by her remark that eight months was a long time.  He
trusted his wife, but no one knew better than he the pressures suffered
by innocent relatives in cases of disloyalty to the State.  Perhaps they
had not been strong enough. Perhaps they would accept the substitute
body and be glad to believe he was dead and they could start life again.
Moving too quickly could ruin everything.  So could delaying too long.
He wasn't going to gamble everything on British caution.  It looked more
than possible that his wife would reject an approach for fear of a KGB
trap.  He got up and went into the bedroom.  He found what he was
looking for in a drawer. When Davina came back he was in the kitchen,
drinking tea and waiting for her.

"I want this given to my wife," he said.

"And I want her answer.  I'll be ready for debriefing when I get it.
Tell the Brigadier that I don't want to wait, and I know he doesn't
either.  "

"You're sure," Davina said.

"You're sure you want to risk this?"

"There's no risk," he said.

"This will prove I'm alive.  It can go in the diplomatic bag to Moscow."
Davina turned over the postcard of Stonehenge at sunset and looked at
the back.  One side of it was covered in Cyrillic writing; the space for
the name and address was left empty.

"Why this?"  she asked him.

"Why not a letter?"

"Because of what I've written on it," he said.

"She will know it comes from me.  Will you do this today?"

"I'll try," she said.  She saw the look on his face, and said quickly,
"All right, I'll get it sent off this afternoon." She began to make
lunch for them; he had gone back to the sitting-room. She tried to
ignore the inexcusable depression that had begun when he gave her the
postcard.  He wanted his wife and daughter. She had always known and
accepted that.  It was no time to be possessive, to spoil the
relationship they had by resenting his need for his family.  She felt so
guilty she left the cooking and came into the room where he was sitting,
and put her arms round his shoulder.

"Don't worry," she said.

"I'll get everything moving, if that's the way you think is best.  You
don't need to snap at me." He reached up and touched her face.

"I'm sorry.  But I want them to stand at the grave and know that I am
still alive.  I want Fedya's answer in my hands." She left him, with a
cheerful expression on her face, and the inevitable sinking in her
heart.  By five o'clock the postcard had been delivered to the
appropriate authority and was sealed in an envelope for inclusion in the
next diplomatic bag for Moscow. The Ilyushinjet landed at Moscow airport
just after six in  the morning. The coffin was taken off and loaded
into a small van, which sped away towards the city centre.  By nine
o'clock the body was lying under a bright light in the private mortuary
owned by the KGB, and there were three men grouped around it.  One was a
police surgeon;

the other two were high-ranking officers of the KGB dressed as
civilians. The taller and older-looking of the two stared down at the
discoloured, mutilated corpse for some moments without speaking.  Then
he spoke to the surgeon.

"How much will an autopsy tell us?"

"Approximate date of death, General; length of time in the water; age;

whether he died from drowning or was killed and put in the sea. Analysis
of the organs depends upon the degree of decomposition.  "

"What you mean," the General said sarcastically, 'is that you can't make
a positive identification with Ivan Sasanov.  " He gave the surgeon a
baleful look and was gratified to see him wince.

"The teeth, General..."  he said hurriedly.

"Dental records will prove whether it's Sasanov."

"Dental treatment can be faked," he said abruptly.

"But have it checked anyway.  Tatischev."  He glanced at the younger man
beside him.

"You've got all the records?"

"Here, Comrade General."  The file containing all Sasanov's medical data
was passed to him.  He read through it slowly, glancing at the grisly
remains on the table as he did so.

"Yes," he said suddenly.

"That's interesting."  Both men looked at him expectantly.

"Tatischev - put a call through to Dzerzinsky Street. Tell them to pick
up Sasanov's wife and bring her here.  " He turned away and said to the
surgeon," while we wait; have that thing covered up.  " He walked
out of the mortuary room, followed by Tatischev who hurried to a
telephone. Fedya Sasanova knew who she would find when she answered the
persistent ring on her doorbell.  They seemed to tower over her as she
stared at them, though in fact neither of the men was tall.  Fear
invested them with height and bulk and gave them a menace which was
quite imaginary.  They asked her very politely to come with them, and
waited in the narrow passage as she pulled on a coat. Her hands were
trembling too much to do it up properly, and the coat hung awkwardly
from the wrong buttons.  She sat in the back of the Zil, one man driving
and the other beside her.  Her companion offered her a cigarette, which
she refused.  They had been told not to frighten her. Her fear reached a
crescendo as the car swung into Dzerzinsky Street and she thought she
was being taken to the KGB offices; her vision swam and she thought she
was going to faint.  But the car went past the dreaded building and
turned left.

"Where are we going?"  It was almost a whisper, and the man beside her
leaned down as if he were deaf.

"To the city mortuary," he answered.

"Your husband's body is there."

"Oh," she murmured, job, I didn't know it had come.  Thank you, Comrade;
thank you for fetching me.  for a moment I was confused.  " She didn't
go on and he looked out of the window to let her collect herself before
she said something stupid. They brought her into the mortuary room and
she hesitated, staring at the shape lying on a table, shrouded in a
green plastic sheet with a brilliant light beamed down upon it.  For a
moment the men standing near were in deep shadow.  When the General
stepped forward, she recognized him immediately. He held out his hand,
and took hers; he noticed how cold it was, and the tiny nervous tremor.

"General Volkov - They had known each other socially for nearly twenty
years; he had a dacha in the same select area, but it was bigger than
theirs, in keeping with his rank.  He had been Ivan Sasanov's immediate
superior when he first came to Moscow.  He had been responsible for the
arrest and punishments of the dissidents.  Antonyii Volkov.  He had sent
Belezky to the psychiatric hospital.

"Your husband's body arrived from England this morning," he said.

"I know this will be very distressing, Comrade Sasanova, but I am afraid
we want you to make a positive identification.  You must be brave; it
will be difficult to recognize him.  Tatischev will get you a brandy.  "
He took her by the arm and guided her to the table; the brilliant light
almost blinded her when she tried to look up.  She stood there waiting,
staring at the green plastic, gripping both hands together in front of
her ill-fitting coat, and tried to think clearly.  If it was her husband
under there.  if he were really dead, and not in hiding.  God forbid,
she thought, using the word quite unconsciously.  And yet, if he were
dead if it could be proved he hadn't defected they'd be reinstated.
Irina would have a future;

she could sleep without nightmares and open the front door without fear.
Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of her husband dead;

they slipped down her cheek, and she brushed them away with the back
of her hand.  She wanted him to be alive; her reaction to the news that
his body had been found, a suicide by drowning, had been desperate
grief.  And then the doubt came, growing stronger by the hour.  He had
not been suffering from any mental illness, or receiving any treatment.
Those items printed in I vestia were lies.  And if they were lies, then
so might the body be.  She glanced timidly at Volkov.  What did he
expect her to say- what did he want her to say? Tatischev was beside her
with a glass of brandy.  She took a sip.

"A little more," he suggested.

"It'll be a shock for you."  She obeyed, and after a further moment's
pause, Volkov asked her, "Do you feel strong enough to look at the body,
and take time?  Time to examine it closely and make absolutely sure?"
She nodded.  The brandy was burning its way down.  The surgeon stepped
forward and removed the green plastic. She gave a gasp and turned away,
shutting her eyes.  Tatischev caught her elbow and gently turned her
back.

"You must look," he said.

"Not at the face, look at the body only.  " She opened her eyes and kept
them focused on the horrid corpse, avoiding the ghastly bloated, eyeless
deformity that was the head.  The brandy had helped her; slowly she
steadied herself and her memory supplied clues.  There were no hands. It
was impossible to tell whether the man she had loved was the pitiful
horror below her.  But she studied it, searching for recognition.  If he
were dead, she and Irina would be safe.  She put a hand up to her mouth,
and then searched in her bag for a handkerchief.  She wiped her lips and
then her eyes.

"It's Ivan," she said.

"I identify it.  It's my husband."  She turned away and burst into
tears.

"You are quite sure?"  Volkov asked her. She nodded, weeping without
restraint.

"You can go home, then," he said kindly.

"Don't speak of this to anyone."

"No, no, Comrade General."

"We will meet at the funeral," he said. The security officers guided
Fedya Sasanova to the door.  Volkov turned and walked away, his junior
officer at his heels like an attentive dog; the cover was flung over the
dead body, and it was returned to refrigeration.  The bright light went
out.  The door was locked. Back in her apartment, Fedya Sasanova calmed
her quivering nerves with a cup of hot tea laced with a little vodka.
She sat by herself at the kitchen table and cried, while she sipped the
tea.  Finally, exhausted by strain and emotion, and lulled by the vodka
and the brandy, she fell asleep at the table, Antonyii Volkov leaned
across his desk.  He thrust the open file towards his junior officer.

"Read that," he said.

"Fifth line down.  Then tell me how long the Sasanovs have been
married." Tatischev read the few lines and paused.

"Twenty-three years," he said.

"Right.  Though he wasn't a Jew, Sasanov had been circumcised The
genitals on that body were in bad condition, one testicle gone, the
other partly gone. But even I could see the man hadn't been circumcised.
Whatever mistake a woman might make over her husband's body, she
wouldn't mistake that. She was lying."

"Yes," Tatischev said.

"Of course.  Why, General?  Why would she identify a strange body?"

"Because she knows he didn't commit suicide," Volkov answered.

"She knew he had defected.  She identified him to put us off the trail;
and to make life easier for herself."

"What should be done about it?"

"We'll arrest her," Volkov said.

"After the funeral.  You can see to that.  Perhaps I hoped to find her
genuinely innocent..." He shrugged.

"If she'd rejected that body, I would have rehabilitated her and the
daughter, cleared them of any responsibility for what that swine has
done. But now..."  He shrugged again.

"So we have an interesting situation.  The British say Sasanov is dead,
and give us that lump of offal to prove it.  His wife says the same, and
our agent in England says he was burned to death in a fire."  He paused,
liking Tatischev as an audience.

"Brigadier White has given us a body to bury, and we've accepted it,
because we know in fact that Sasanov is really dead; it ties up the ends
and leaves no propaganda for the West.  It's all very neat and a good
example of Intelligence Services working together unofficially.  That is
how it seems, eh?"

"I don't see why the British should save us embarrassment," Tatischev
ventured.

"Nor do I," Volkov murmured.

"The only reason they would give us an advantage is because they have
gained one for themselves.  Whatever happened in the fire, Sasanov is
still alive. But for now, we must play out the charade.

"We will go to the funeral and it will be widely reported.  The grieving
widow and daughter will be photographed.  And we will wait for our
Centre agent's next report from England." Charley had come back from the
hairdresser when she found the message her daily help had scribbled on
the telephone pad.

"Mr.  Spencer-Barr phoned.  Please ring him at this number." Charley
read the message and frowned.  He had not contacted her since their
dinner at the Connaught.  She had forgotten about him and life was
running at its usual pace of invitations and parties.  There had been
something that disturbed her momentarily, and she remembered it now,
reminded of it by seeing his name.  The political columns of the
newspapers didn't interest her; she was bored by international affairs;
they were always depressing and full of violence.  She ignored them,
concentrating on the pleasant items and the gossip columns where she had
often been featured herself.  It was a photograph on the front page that
had caught her attention.  Then she read the story.

"Missing Soviet delegate's body found'.  She skipped through the details
and looked again at the photograph of the man whose body had been washed
up on the Sussex coast. It was not a good photograph, obviously blown up
from a group picture, but there was a familiarity about it that
intrigued her.  It had a vague resemblance to the Pole her sister had
brought home for the weekend. Slavs did tend to look alike, after all;
she turned the page and started reading something else.  But the
likeness worried her.  She turned back and studied it again.  Just
something about the set of the eyes.  she'd spent a lot of time that
weekend looking at Davina's friend.  More to observe her effect upon him
than to memorize his face, but the impression had stayed.  Missing
Soviet delegate.  Sitting under the hair drier she had felt a funny
little cold chill.  It was nonsense, of course.  The man had been dead
for months according to the story.  And Slavs would look even more alike
in a bad photograph.  She had put it out of her mind, and lost herself
in a long article on spring fashions in Harpers and Queen. With
Spencer-Barr's message in her hand, she thought of it again.  He had
taken her out and spent most of the evening talking about her sister and
the Polish boyfriend.  Now, when she supposed he had gone to America, he
had suddenly rung her up again.  He had been very interested in their
relationship.  Charley remembered him saying Dav- ina had got a job he
wanted, and how an affair with a Pole would count against her. She
lifted the phone and pushed the buttons; an operator answered, "Ministry
of Defence.  Can I help you?" Charley asked to speak to Mr.
Spencer-Barr.  His voice was curt, intimidating.

"Spencer-Barr."  When she gave her name, the tone changed.  He sounded
friendly and enthusiastic.

"Oh, how nice of you to ring back.  I've tried to get you several times
in the last week, but no success."

"You liar," Charley said to herself.

"If the daily's not in I have an answering service."

"I got your message," she said.

"I was surprised, I was sure you'd gone to the States."

"No, not yet," he said.

"Is there any chance you'd be free to come to dinner tonight?  I've got
an old friend come in from Germany and I thought I'd get a party
together for him.  He's very nice, great fun."

"I'm not free, actually," Charley said.

"I'm going to the theatre." He sounded disappointed.

"What a shame.  I'd told him all about you and he was getting very
excited. Look, we're having dinner fairly late and then going on to the
Regency Club. Why don't you join us there?"

"I could, I suppose."  She hesitated.  The idea of the nice German who
was great fun tempted her.

"Can I leave it open?"

"Yes, of course, but do try, won't you?"

"Yes," she said.

"It rather depends on how late the theatre party breaks up.  If it's
early, I'll come on to the Regency.  Goodbye." She went into her
bedroom, looked at herself in the glass and was pleased with the way
they had set her hair.  It looked casual and abundant, its colour
gleaming like new- minted copper. The Regency Club was full of Arabs;
she never went there.  It was the kind of invitation she wouldn't have
considered accepting, except that he had made the German sound
intriguing.  She shrugged.  A particularly faithful admirer was taking
her out that night, with another couple. She had rather lost interest in
him; he was so abjectly in love with her that the affair had lost
excitement.  She might go to the Regency if there was nothing more
amusing in prospect. Elizabeth Cole sipped her hot tea and looked at her
watch.  Her contact was late; she had been waiting nearly twenty minutes
and twice prevented a stranger from sitting at her table.  When the
young man came up, she shook her head and said in passable Russian, "I'm
sorry, that is my friend's place. She's just coming." The man said very
quietly in French, "She is not coming.  She sent me instead."  He sat
down in the empty chair and put his tea in front of him. Elizabeth Cole
sat completely still and said nothing.  Her plain, cheerful face became
a sullen mask.  Her nerves had given a frantic jump, as if an electric
shock had passed through her.  Then she froze. The young man gave the
lecturer's name.

"She is back at the University," he said.

"She can't meet you any more.  I have made contact with Irina Sasanova.
My name is Alexei Poliakov." For a moment Elizabeth stared at him; her
expression was surprisingly grim for such a pleasant type of girl.

"All right," she said at last.

"Tell me about it."

"You can trust me," he insisted.

"I spoke to her after class.  She believes her father is dead and that
the body they flew home is his.  I tried to convince her, but she won't
believe me.  How can I prove it to her?" Elizabeth hesitated.  She asked
about the woman lecturer to gain time.

"Has she been fully rehabilitated?"

"Yes," Poliakov nodded.

"She has written a denunciation of Bokov.  It will be published next
week. It broke her heart," he added.

"She spent a whole night crying, without sleep."

"How do you know so much?  Personal details.  Were you with her?" He
looked into the English girl's flinty grey eyes and said simply, "After
Bokov's arrest, she stayed with me.  But I'm not suspected.  They
believe I influenced her against the dissidents."

"I see," Elizabeth said.  She couldn't fault him, and her instincts
believed him genuine.  She decided to take the chance.

"I have something which will convince Irina and her mother," she said.

"But you are taking a very great risk.  I have to warn you of that."

"I understand," he said quietly, "I am quite ready."  He repeated the
Russian girl's remark.

"Sasanov tried to help Belezky; we must help his family.  I know it's
dangerous, and I'll be careful."

"It's dangerous because you have to trust the wife and the daughter,"
she said.

"If either of them gives you away, it'll be the end of every one of
you." Including the foundation of my little network, she thought. She
drew a brown envelope from her bag and passed it to him under the table.

"This is from Sasanov," she murmured.

"It will prove that he's alive.  Give it to Irina after the funeral. She
must think he's dead until then.  Can you keep it safe?" The envelope
went into his jacket pocket.

"I can promise you, nobody will find it.  I have a class with her
student group on Wednesday, the 26th.  That's a week after the funeral
takes place."

"That'll be time enough," Elizabeth said.

"You're quite certain she's really sympathetic?  For God's sake, make
sure before you hand this over."

"I know she is," he said.

"She is a New Russian at heart.  I know it."

"Well," Elizabeth said, gathering her bag and the shopping from Gum,
"I hope you're right.  For all our sakes.  Meet me here this time next
week.  I'll go first." She walked out of the cafe without a glance at
him.  He finished his tea, lit a cigarette and read the newspaper for
the next twenty minutes. A middle-aged woman shared his table, and they
exchanged a few words before he too left the cafe.

"I am going mad shut up in this place!"  Sasanov said it with his back
turned to Davina.

"And every day the same thing no news!" He turned and faced her; his
look was sour and suspicious.  She had come to know it well since they
were shut up in the safe flat.

"I don't believe my wife has had any message from me," he said.

"It is three weeks now, and nothing.  What are you keeping back, Vina?
Has something happened to them?  Or didn't that postcard ever reach
her?"

"I've told you," she said, 'again and again, it's being delivered and
we're waiting for news.  And for God's sake stop accusing me of
deceiving you!  I'm not going to put up with it.  "

"Yes you are," he said.

"You will nurse me along until the moment your Brigadier White says you
can leave."

"And by nursing you along," she said angrily, 'do you mean sleeping with
you?

His temper flared, glad of an excuse to release the tension pent up
inside. He took a step towards her, white with anger.

"That too," he said.

"That's part of the service!" She had never struck a man in her life;
she had never lost control of herself, even when Richard left her.  She
slapped Sansanov as hard as she could across the face.  For a moment
they stared at each other in furious confrontation.  She saw his hand
clench and then drop back to his side.  She turned her back on him and
went out of the room.  He didn't move; he heard the front door slam and
slowly went to the curtained window and looked out. There was nothing to
see, but a blank wall.  The apartment faced the inner well of the block.
They couldn't see or be seen.  He dropped the net and rubbed the side of
his face.  The blow had hurt him.  He lit a cigarette and threw himself
back into one of the common little armchairs with a force that broke a
spring.  He closed his eyes and gave himself up to anger and despair.
The abyss of melancholy beckoned him; sorrow and fatality were as much a
part ofsasanov as of every Russian, heritage of a long history where
life offered little beyond birth, suffering and then death.  His spirit
faltered, wavered at the edge, and then drew back.  He had sunk to the
depths after Belezky's death; he had climbed back to the living world
because he had made up his mind to leave his country and to fight
Belezky's cause.  But he wasn't fighting anything.  He opened his eyes
sharply and sat up; the cigarette was crushed in his fingers and flung
into a waste- bin.  It had a garish red rose painted on it; Sasanov
hated it as if it embodied the alien sentimentality of the alien
British.  Nobody else would paint a flower on something they used for
rubbish.  He stared at it with loathing.  No, he wasn't fighting; he had
played the bargaining game with all the skill of his professional
training; he had made his demands and had them accepted.  It had seemed
to be going so smoothly; he should have been forewarned that life just
did not treat people in that sunny way. The fire at Halldale had been
the awakening.  The attempt to murder him had failed only because he had
insisted on spending time in the motel. He owed his life to sleeping
with Davina Graham. But now the element of time was all-important.
Important so that his wife and daughter shouldn't accept the bogus
corpse as his and plan their lives without him.  Important that he
should get to work with the British Intelligence Service, and by so
doing discover which among them was working for the Russians.  He
couldn't protect himself from attack while he remained entombed in the
dingy flat, taking a little exercise in the darkness, shadowed by
security men; waiting, waiting.  He cursed out loud in Russian, as if he
were challenging the Fates, the British and his own Service all
together.  He was becoming paranoid, suspecting everyone, even the woman
who was now in love with him.  He wished he hadn't insulted her.  He
cursed himself for that.  Behind the anger in her face, he had seen
pain, and he hated himself for hurting her. But she couldn't give him
what he needed, the sense of deep identification known only between
Russians.  If he loved her, it was a separate thing.  His wife's face
was what he wanted to see; to touch her cheeks with his finger, to bury
his head in her breasts and hold her close to him.  To see his daughter
smile, to take her hand and walk out in the clean fresh air with her. He
had lost his roots and the sickness in him was growing stronger than his
resolve to right the dreadful injustice done to his friend and others
suffering in the name of human freedom. There had been moments, and as
he sat alone in the cramped sitting-room, this became another, when he
almost welcomed the idea of going back, of being tried and punished and
joining Belezky in that way, rather than struggle out his life among
strangers.  He got up, found another cigarette and lit it. His hand,
normally steady, trembled like a drunkard's.  He threw the shaking match
away and lit another. He couldn't get out now, even if he wanted to.  He
was hemmed in against the menace from his own side.  He was helpless,
defenceless against doubt and anguish, dependent upon the one woman for
news, for comfort, for hope itself. When he heard her come in, he sprang
up and burst into the hallway.  He pulled her into his arms, and while
he mumbled his apologies and tried to kiss her, she realized that he was
crying. James White's second-in-command had been a history don at the
university where the Brigadier's son was an undergraduate.  His name
then was Grant Mitchell; his family were staunch Scots Presbyterians and
he appeared to be a typically staid product of his background.  His
friendship with the Whites' son Philip had brought him into their family
circle, and James White detected something unusual about the young man.
Five years later he appeared unexpectedly at the Whites' house in Kent.
James White had listened quietly to the anguished story of Grant's
struggle against homosexuality and seduction by one of his own students.
His lover had tried to blackmail him. White's attention riveted on him.
What kind of blackmail, he inquired gently.  There was a look of
defiance on Mitchell's face.

"He threatened to expose me unless I agreed to pass information to the
Russians.  He knows I want to go into the Foreign Office."  White had
put an arm round his shoulders.

"I can't help being what I am, but I'm not a bloody traitor. White
listened to the words and nodded.  He sent Mitch- ell to bed with a
stiff whisky and soda and told him he had nothing to worry about.  He
had come to exactly the right person. Grant Mitchell didn't go into the
Foreign Office.  He completed his term at university, and then
unaccountably failed the Foreign Office exam. By this time the Brigadier
had been given a number of names and details of a literary group
operating in south London which was another recruiting centre for
left-wing sympathizers.  Grant Mitchell then went to America where all
trace of him was lost.  He returned under a false name, with a passport
and documents prepared by the Brigadier's Department, and went to work
for him at St.  James's Place. His name was no longer Grant Mitchell; he
had been Humphrey Grant for many years.  He was a cold, forbidding man,
completely cerebral.  Since his emotional life had put him at risk, he
had discarded it.  He lived for his work, for the excitement and the
challenge of Intelligence at the top level. He was known in the
Department as the Sea-Green Incorruptible, and the nickname was apt. The
Brigadier was aware of it, as he was aware of everything that happened
among his subordinates, and thought the reference to Robespierre very
acute. For the past two months Grant had been in Saudi Arabia,
negotiating secretly with representatives of the United Arab Emirates.
The results had not been satisfactory.  James White was glad to have him
back he was the man to head the team working with Sasanov.  He had spent
the best part of a week reading the file on Sasanov, going through
Davina Graham's reports, studying the findings of the pathologists and
arson experts on the Halldale Manor fire. By the weekend, he had
prepared a summary for the Brigadier, and they studied it together in
his office.

"In your opinion, then the informer was not at Halldale?" Grant shook
his head.

"No.  The staff there were checked and counter-checked.  They were all
long-standing, reliable Department men. None of them had money which
couldn't be accounted for, or pressing family problems, or any evidence
to suggest they could have been working for the Russians.  And all were
killed in the fire.  We've got to look elsewhere.  "

"I was afraid of that," the Brigadier said.  He sighed.

"It looks as if we've got another one tucked in here somewhere.  Christ,
I wish we had the death penalty for this sort of thing!"

"Not with our present Home Secretary," Grant said drily.

"He'd send the bastard to a psychiatric clinic to find out just what
pressures made him become a traitor and charge it to the taxpayer. We'll
have to find this one and deal with him ourselves, this time."

"Oh, we'll find him," the Brigadier said.

"Or her," Grant amended. White looked up quickly.

"You're not suggesting Miss. Graham?"

"No, I'm not suggesting anyone," he said.

"But I'd like to look into her as closely as we've looked into those
poor devils who got burned to death.  What's the harm, if she's got
nothing to hide?"

"No harm at all," the Brigadier said.  "

"Do you propose to talk to her?  "

"At some point, yes.  I'll do a little preliminary digging first.  And I
ought to make contact with Sasanov.  He seems very anxious to start
serious work with us.  We ought to take advantage as quickly as
possible."

"He's reached the same conclusion as we have," James White said.

"He knows we've got a Mole, and he won't have a chance of fading out of
sight himself until we've caught him.  It'll be easier when we've had a
reaction from his family.  It's a month since we sent his message, and
there's been no definite answer.  Miss. Graham says he's building up a
considerable head of steam, being shut up in the flat and getting no
news." Grant pursed his lips, and tapped them with the end of his
pencil.

"I suggest we make immediate contact with Swallow and stress the
urgency. People are apt to take their time over these things when
they're in their own sphere of operations.  Shall I organize that?"

"Yes," the Brigadier decided.

"Send it through today.  We must have an answer, otherwise we just might
find Sasanov has decided to say nothing at all until we've discovered
our double agent.  And that could take even more time."

"And time," Grant said quietly, 'is something we haven't got.  I learned
that from the Saudis, if nothing else.  " He gathered his file and
walked out of the office.  By noon, a coded message was on its way to
the Embassy in Moscow, for the commercial attache who was the head of
Intelligence.  Elizabeth Cole, code-named "Swallow', received her
instructions from him in a memo which she immediately put through the
shredder. She set out for the cafe at tea time.  A message for Poliakov
was phoned through to the University.  Books he had ordered were waiting
for him in Moscow's biggest bookshop on Red Square.  If he collected
them at four, they'd be packed up to take away.  He said thank you, yes,
he'd come at that time.  He was already waiting for Elizabeth Cole in
the cafe when she arrived. Irina Sansanova watched her mother drinking
tea; since the funeral she had seemed less nervous, more calm in
herself.  The funeral had been an ugly occasion, a quick cremation with
no relatives except themselves, and two officials flanking the sombre
figure of General Antonyii Volkov. The group were photographed, which
surprised Irina and her mother; Fedya Sasanova cried through the
ceremony, while Irina stayed unmoved, supporting her mother.  To the
eyes of Volkov, there was more relief than sorrow in the widow's tears.
The white-faced daughter showed real human agony.  She at least believed
that the dead man was her father.  He shook hands with them afterwards,
and they were driven home in an official car.  Inside the flat, Irina
broke down, and wept bitterly until she went to bed and fell asleep.  A
week later, after the sociology class, her lecturer asked her to stay
behind and go over her notes with him.

"I must talk to you," he said.

"About your father." She had looked down, tears filling her eyes.

"Please don't.  He was buried last week."  She shrugged.

"It's all over now." Poliakov had laid a hand on her shoulder.  She
blushed at the contact.

He said quietly, "Your father is alive.  I have something which proves
that body belonged to someone else." She stared at him, eyes wide with
amazement.

"Take this and give it to your mother." She put the envelope in her
pocket.  The risk he had taken appalled her. So did the extent of his
involvement with what was certainly treason. It was one thing to
theorize and talk about her views on sociology and whether she would
forgive her father if by chance he ever came back. Dangerous enough to
merit a harsh punishment.  But delivering that envelope could mean his
death. Receiving it and passing it to her mother carried the same
penalty for her. Her colour faded, leaving her very pale indeed.  She
closed her hand round the shape in her pocket.

"What is it?"  she spoke in a whisper.

"I don't know," Poliakov said.

"I only know it will prove your father is alive.  Give it to your mother
and if she has anything to say, write this in your next essay.

"Lenin was the high priest in the religion of the Proletariat."  Can you
remember that?  " She repeated the phrase.

"It's meaningless enough to have me question you about it," he said.

"If there is no message, then write," Lenin was the champion of the
Proletariat.  " Do you understand?"

"I understand," she murmured.  Poliakov had done something which sprang
from two causes; one was sympathy for her dilemma and the other was
because he had rightly interpreted her blushes.  He kissed her lightly
on the cheek.  He saw by the look in her eyes that he had sealed the
pact of mutual silence.

"Destroy it afterwards, whatever it is.  Leave no trace."  She nodded
and hurried out of the lecture room.

A fellow student, one of the few girls who spoke kindly to her these
days, smiled and said, "I think he's in love with you, Irina; he pays
more attention to you than anyone else."  She laughed out loud at
Irina's crimson cheeks, and went her way. That had been three days ago,
and still Irina had not given the envelope to her mother.  She had
opened it, and seen the incomprehensible picture of a sunrise and a
circle of big stones, and had recognized instantly her father's writing
on the back.  And read the message: "The sun rose once for us, Fedya.
Join me and it will rise for us again.  Your husband, Ivan, who loves
you." She hadn't done what Poliakov told her; she hadn't given it to her
mother and she hadn't destroyed it.  She kept it in its envelope, hidden
in her brassiere, and it was instinct that made her delay until that
afternoon when they were drinking tea.  There was something unnatural
about her mother, as if the funeral had pacified her fears.  She slept
better and seemed more cheerful in a guarded way.  She made Irina
uneasy. Mother?  " Fedya looked up at her.

"Yes, dearest?"

"Are you still unhappy over what happened to Father?"

"But of course!  Why do you ask such a strange question?  Do you think
I've stopped missing him when only a week ago we stood by his body?"
When Irina didn't answer, she added, "I can't weep for ever.  And you
have your life to live.  Maybe now the authorities will realize we did
nothing wrong.  He didn't defect, he had a breakdown and killed himself.
We can't be blamed for that."

"Then in a way you're glad he's dead," her daughter said in a flat
voice.

"No, no, how could I be glad!"  Fedya protested.

"I loved him dearly, you know that you know how much he suffered after
Belezky died." Instinctively she spoke very quietly.

"But the way it's turned out is better for us.  Better for you."

"You identified his body," Irina said.

"Tell me the truth, mother.  Was it really him?" Fedya hesitated; her
daughter looked tense, odd.  Why all the sudden questions, and that
final, terribly dangerous question?  A wild suspicion flashed into her
mind.  Children had been set to spy upon their parents before now.  Then
reason prevailed and she shuddered at what fear could do to the deepest
relationship.  God forgive her for thinking such a thing of her own
child, even for a moment.

"No, darling," she said gently.

"It wasn't your father.  But Volkov thinks it is.  The disappearance is
explained you saw the pictures in Pravda and the reports.  We'll be safe
now, just so long as we forget all about it.  We must think of him as
dead too." Slowly Irina took the envelope out of her dress and placed it
on the table.

"I knew you were hiding something," she said.

"You could have trusted me, Mother.  Read what's inside that.  Then tell
me if we can think of him as dead." Fedya covered her mouth with one
hand, as a cry of surprise escaped her. She had looked at the written
side of the card first; she turned it over quickly and then back,
reading the few words again.

"Oh, my God," she said.

"My God it's from him."

"How can you be sure?"  Irina asked her.

"It could be forged, it could be a trick.  I don't think it is, but we
dare not risk anything."

"It's from your father," Fedya Sasanova said.

"No one could send that message except him.  Nobody but I would
understand it..." The sun rose once for us.  " He sent this."

"What does it mean?"

"When we were married," her mother said, 'we went to the Crimea for a
week. We had a room in a holiday chalet, deep in the country.  It was
spring and the flowers were like a carpet.  He took me for a walk very
early one morning before the sun rose.  We made love among the flowers,
and the rising sun touched us, like in that postcard.  " She put her
head down and began to cry.

"What does he mean, join me?  Oh, God, how I miss him!"  She looked up
suddenly, and fear distorted her face.

"Where did you get this?  Who gave it to you?"

"Someone I trust," her daughter said simply.

"They will send a message back for us.  He wants you to go to him.  I
want to go too." Her mother wiped the tears away.  She picked up the
postcard and then let it fall to the table.

"We can't," she said.

"We could never get out of Russia.  It's madness." Irina leaned towards
her.

"But why?  He must know of a way or he wouldn't suggest it.  Mother,
don't you want to go to him?"

"Of course I'd go," she mumbled.

"I lie awake thinking of him, longing to be with him.  But I'd
reconciled myself to life without him.  I knew when I saw that body that
he was safe in the West.  And I was glad because I knew you'd have a
chance again.  Your career at University, graduating as teacher... We've
been under a cloud for so long, and the strain has been so awful!  When
they came to take me to the mortuary to identify him, I thought I was
going to be arrested I nearly died of fear.  No, this isn't possible. If
we get involved in anything and it fails, we'll go to the Gulag, or the
mental hospitals.  I might risk it myself, but never for you.  " She
poured a glass of steaming tea from the samovar, and sipped it.

"My mind is made up," she said.

"Put that card in the stove, Irina."

"No, mother.  Wait till the morning; think about it.  I want to go; I
don't want to go on living here, frightened of every knock on the door.
Make up your mind tomorrow." Her mother moved slowly, as if she were
very tired.  She took the card from the table, and kissed it.  Then she
lifted the lid of the stove and dropped it inside.

"I have decided," she said.

"Your father will understand.  I have had a good life; I want to see you
settled and safe, with a man of your own and a child.  We won't talk
about it any more." Irina didn't answer; for a few moments while she
argued with her mother, her courage had risen, minimizing the
difficulties, ignoring the penalty for failure.  Escape to the West
seemed to answer the problems of loneliness and the drab fear that
invested their lives. But when Fedya Sasa- nova dropped the postcard
into the stove, Irina faced reality again.  It was not possible. Nothing
could be done.  Her mother was right.  She saw the sorrow on her face,
realizing suddenly how her mother had aged in the last nine months.  She
sipped her tea and bowed her head like an old, exhausted woman.  Irina
came and put her arms around her.

"Little mother," she whispered, using the old-fashioned endearment.

"I love you; we have each other.  We'll be all right.  " At five o'clock
in the morning, in the dead hour before dawn, Fedya Sasanova was woken
by the terrified caretaker of the apartment block. Two men loomed in the
bedroom door behind her.  She got up and dressed, and crammed a few
clothes into a plastic bag.  Irina woke as they were leaving; still half
asleep, she opened her door and saw the figures in the tiny lighted
passage.  She had one glimpse of her mother's white face before she was
hustled out and the entrance door was slammed.  The dividing walls
between the little flats were thin, and their neighbours heard Irina
screaming.  Nobody came to comfort her. Jeremy Spencer-Barr's suitcases
were all packed and labelled; he had letters of introduction and his
accredited papers for his new post at the UN. Everything was ready, and
his girl-friend Mary had arranged to drive him to the airport.  He came
up to Humphrey Grant's office, expecting a final briefing.  He felt
confident and eager, and he was determined to impress Grant.  He
considered him the most important member of the Department after the
Brigadier himself.  Unlike his colleagues, he didn't call him SGI behind his back; or indulge in infantile jokes, like drawing a guillotine
in the margin of one of his memos that was Peter Harrington's level.
Grant looked up when he came in, and gave his bleak smile for a moment.
Spencer-Barr sat down and waited.  Grant shuffled papers.  Then he put
them in a neat pile and said, "I expect you're all packed and ready for
New York?" Yes, "Jeremy said eagerly.

"I'm off tomorrow."

"Well," Grant remarked, "I'm sorry about this, but we've decided not to
send you."  Spencer-Barr stared at him.  He was so taken aback that he
groped for words.

"Not going?  But why?  Why not?"

"Because the Brigadier has another job for you," Grant said.

"We're sending someone else out to New York."

"Harrington is he going back?"  There was an angry flush under the young
man's eyes, like blotches.

"No," Grant said.

"He's not going anywhere at the moment.  Someone from the Washington
Embassy is going to be transferred to the UN.  We think you can be more
useful here." He looked at the man on the other side of the desk, and
noted the signs of anger and bewilderment becoming charged with
suspicion.

"One thing I must know, sir.  Is this a demotion?  Have I done anything
wrong?"

"On the contrary," Grant said smoothly, 'what we have in mind for you is
much more important than playing along two Iron Curtain contacts.
Harrington always thought they were more important than they really
were.  I can assure you, this change of plan is no reflection on you.
Quite the contrary," he repeated.

"Thank God for that!"  Spencer-Barr said.  He had regained control.

"When will I know what my new job will be?"

"In a week or two," Grant said.

"When the details are worked out.  In the meantime I suggest you spend
the interim at the language centre. Brush up your Russian.  " He didn't
give Spencer-Barr time to ask more questions.  He stood up and said
briefly, "That's it then.  If you've run into any expenses through this
US trip being cancelled, list them and send them in.  I'll see that
you're reimbursed."

"Thank you," Spencer-Barr said. He turned and went out of the office. He
paused in the corridor for a moment.

"Russian," he said under his breath.

"This is something big..  " Then he walked on, his step quickening.  He
hurried down the stairs to his own section, and saw with a flash of
irritation that the figure coming up was Peter Harrington.  For a second
or two they stared at each other, nakedly hostile; and then Harrington
grinned his impudent, infuriating grin, and said, "Not gone yet, old
man?

"No," Spencer-Barr said.  Harrington stopped and it was impossible to
get past him without pushing him aside.  He noticed that the older man
looked less dishevelled than usual and had lost weight.

"What's the delay?"  Harrington asked.

"I thought you'd gone already. Someone keeping the seat warm for you,
are they?  "

"I'm not going after all," Jeremy said.

"The plan's been changed."  He took a step downward but Harrington
didn't move.

"Who's the replacement then?  Don't tell me those stupid buggers
upstairs are just leaving my contacts" Not at all," Spencer-Barr
snapped.

"Someone from Washington is going to New York.  I must go, I'm in a
hurry." Harrington stood aside.

"And what are you going to do, join Personnel?"  He laughed as Jeremy
went past him with out answering. He watched Jeremy's retreating figure
as he hurried down the stairs and out of sight.

"You little turd," he muttered.  Then he continued on his own way up. He
had been trying to contact Davina Graham but with out success; she
hadn't been in to the office for weeks.  Her regular reports to White
were no longer made in person and nobody knew where she was.  A pall of
uncertainty had settled over the existence of Sasanov and his'minder'.
Harrington got no response from colleagues who might have seen her or
been in contact.  She had vanished immediately after the fire at
Halldale Manor.  He sat by himself in the evenings, holding on to his
resolve not to drink, and wondered whether the vacuum left behind meant
that she was dead.  But if an operative were dead, then Personnel was
always notified.  Nothing had come through to him. He busied himself at
his desk, writing up details on a list of files, his mind concentrating
on other things.  So Spencer-Barr was not going to New York.  He hadn't
appeared to mind, so he must have been assigned to some thing else.  And
at short notice, too, because Peter Harrington knew exactly when his
replacement was supposed to leave, and his remarks had been purely
malicious, a feeble stab at a successful rival. And in spite of his
string of languages and degrees Spencer-Barr was a bloody amateur at the
game. Only a fool would have told him that a Washington diplomat was
going to take the UN post.  That was classified information; he wondered
whether to make use of the information to damage Spencer-Barr, but he
himself didn't stand high enough in anyone's opinion to warrant a
hearing. He had followed Davina's advice, denying himself the ease of a
drink when he was tired and lonely, had cut out the carbohydrates and
enrolled at a gymnasium where he worked out twice a week.  She had held
out a hope of reinstatement that night when they talked in Jules' Bar.
He had clung to the hope and done what she suggested.  But nothing had
happened; no call came to promote him out of the limbo of the Personnel
Department.  The ache for a big, warming Scotch was growing in him.  At
the end of the day he didn't go to the local pub; he went straight home
to the dull little flatlet in Earls Court, switched on the television
and settled down to watch until close down He made himself a sandwich
and some coffee; when the telephone rang, he jumped, and swore because
the hot coffee slopped over and spilt on his leg. When he heard Davina's
voice he laughed out loud with relief.

"Christ, I thought you'd dropped through a hole how are you?  Where have
you been?  Nobody knew where to contact you."

"I'm fine," her voice said.

"I haven't been to the office, that's all. But I'm glad to think I've
been missed.  How are you, Peter?  " He knew it was a genuine inquiry.

"I'm sober, and about six pounds lighter.  I've been living a life of
self-denial, and I'm not joking.  No booze, no sex, and I go to a PT
class twice a week.  It's driven me up the bloody wall, but I've kept my
promise. When are you going to keep yours?  And where the hell are you?"

"What exactly did I promise?"  she said.

"To help me get going again," he answered; and there was no levity this
time.

"To make a fresh start."

"I'm coming up to the office tomorrow," she said.

"Let's have lunch at the pub.  I can't wait to see the new Peter
Harrington."

"He can't wait to see you," he said.

"Come and rescue me from Personnel about twelve-thirty; okay?"

"Fine," Davina said.

"Twelve-thirty." She hung up and he put the receiver down.  Coming up to
the office. That meant she was somewhere in the country.  He didn't know
who had started the rumours about Halldale Manor, but they crept from
office to office and were murmured over drinks on the way home.  And
unlike most rumours, this one was spread by someone who hoped to pick up
an answer to the question.  He frowned, trying to remember where he had
first heard it. The frown became deeper when he realized that it had
originated from someone in Spencer-Barr's office; a junior officer,
still changing the typewriter ribbons and checking the carbon paper. All
agog about the fire, and was it true that the nursing-home was part of
the Department's safe custody system.  That was where Peter had first
heard it, from a stooge in Spencer-Barr's little circle, a side-kick who
wouldn't have known enough to put the question together.  Harrington
made himself more coffee, and sponged the stain off his trousers.
Twelve-thirty tomorrow, he would see Davina Graham. The bright boys
wouldn't have counted on that. One of the students in the sociology
class nudged her companion; they smirked as they saw Irina Sasanova stay
behind with the young lecturer. The class emptied and the girl said to
her friend, "There's something going on there. She can't stop gawking at
him and going red.

I wonder if she'll sleep with him?  "

"Maybe she has already," her companion giggled.

"Her essays aren't that good."  They followed the others away from the
classroom, still giggling and speculating. Poliakov waited for Irina to
come up on the rostrum. Her appearance had shocked him.  She looked
grey-faced, gaunt; he thought immediately that she had been ill. The
essay was almost incomprehensible, as if she had filled up the pages
without any thought of content.  On the final page she had written in a
strong hand, "Lenin was the high priest of the religion of the
proletariat." It made more sense than the rest of what she had written.

"Irina," he said.

"Irina, you look ill.  Tell me, is anything the matter?" Her eyes filled
with tears and overflowed down her cheeks.  She didn't wipe them away or
try to stop them.

"My mother was arrested last week," she said in a low, trembling voice.

"They took her in the middle of the night." It was Poliakov's turn to
freeze with horror.

"The message I gave you" She destroyed it," Irina said.

"They found nothing.  She won't tell them anything because of me."

"God help us," he muttered.

"God help us all."

"You needn't be afraid," the girl said.

"I found out why she was arrested.  I went to Antonyii Volkov himself."
Poliakov stared at her.

"Volkov - you went to ask him about her?"

"He came to the funeral.  My father worked under him for years.  I went
to his office and I wouldn't go away.  They threatened to arrest me, but
I just sat outside the door, and in the end he let me come in.  And he
told me that my mother had been sent to a rehabilitation centre. Not the
Gulag, he assured me about that.  " She gave a grimace of a smile, full
of hatred at the memory.

"He was kind, patient, explaining to me that my mother had told a
damaging lie about my father, which could have saved his life if the
authorities had been warned in time.  She had been selfish and disloyal
and my father's suicide was mostly her fault.  She had to be re-educated
to a sense of her duties as a Soviet citizen.  Then of course she would
be allowed home.  I had nothing to fear, I was a good student, a
faithful member of the Young Communists' Party.  My record was
excellent.  I must go on with my studies, and remember to call on him if
I needed help in any way.  "

"And was this true?"  Poliakov questioned her.  He didn't believe that
the unhappy Fedya Sasanova wouldn't be forced to betray them.

"Not as he told it," Irina answered.

"My mother did lie.  She told me she identified that body, knowing it
wasn't my father.  To protect us and make the authorities believe he was
dead.  They must have known she lied, and that's why she was arrested.
So I thanked Antonyii Volkov and went home to the empty apartment.  I
stayed inside for three days;

all the neighbours knew what had happened.  Nobody dared to come near
me. The caretaker came to tell me I must get out; I slammed the door in
her face. And I wrote the essay for you, with the line you told me.  "

"I am sorry, Irina Ivanovna, so very sorry for you...  and for your
mother." He put his arm around her and she crept closer, clinging to
him.  She hid her face against his chest and sobbed for a few minutes.
He held her, soothing her with words and stroking her hair.  Rage
engulfed him, driving out the initial terror of betrayal.

"My poor child," he said, again and again, while he cursed the
injustice, the iron-hearted tyranny of his country's political system
and the monsters it spawned.

"We'll help you," he promised.

"There are a number of us, we'll take care of you." She raised her head
and looked up at him.

"Send a message back to my father.  Tell him I want to come to him.  If
I have to stay here, I shall kill myself.  Can you do that, Alexei -can
you promise me to send that message?" He nodded, and said something that
she had never heard before.

"I swear by the Holy Saints and the Mother of God," Poliakov said.

"The message will be delivered." Elizabeth Cole knocked at the senior
attache's door and poked her head round when he called out.

"The Head of Chancery wants to see you, sir." He got up and left the
room immediately, following Elizabeth.  They didn't speak till they got
to the little room next door to the Head of Chancery's main office. This
room was clear of all possible electronic listening-devices.  When the
door was closed, Elizabeth wasted neither time nor words.

"I've just come back from seeing the daughter's contact," she said.

"The very worst has happened in one way; the mother's been arrested."

"Christ."  The attache, a seasoned and highly skilled Intelligence
officer, interrupted her.

"I'll say the very worst has happened! This'll blow everything to
pieces.  Where did you meet him?  "

"In the Kremlin Museum; that's our emergency venue," she said.

"Hold on, it may not be as bad as it looks.  The daughter had been to
see him; she told him the news about her mother, and if you can credit
it, she had the guts to go and brazen it out with Volkov himself!"

"Guts is hardly the word for it," he said sombrely.

"He's one of the worst since Schelepin.  Go on."

"Apparently he said her mother was being rehabilitated because of some
lie she was supposed to have told; he played the kindly uncle to the
girl and told her she was in good odour and didn't have to worry.  The
daughter told her contact that the real reason for the arrest was
because her mother had lied about the body they buried, and Volkov had
caught her out.  She'd given the mother the message, and by some really
lucky chance, she'd destroyed it the night before she was arrested.
Daughter is certain mother won't say anything, and anyway she doesn't
know who passed the message to daughter.  The point is, daughter wants
to go over and join father.  " The man was puffing on a cigarette,
concentrating.

"We'll get that down on tape, and then think it through when we've re-run it.

I'll set the machine.  Start again and put in every detail you can think
of Elizabeth told the story a second time, without his interruptions,
and then they sat and listened to the play back.  There was a coffee
machine in the corner, a facility copied from the Americans, and they
both drank a cup.  Elizabeth watched him making squiggles on a pad; she
had worked with him for a long time, and this apparent trifling meant
that he was thinking very hard indeed.  He looked up at her at last, and
the pen was set aside.

"We've got to get the daughter out," he said.

"And not just because the father wants her.  Ifvolkov decides to do an
in-depth investigation of that poor woman she'll implicate the daughter
and if they pick her up that's the end of your network, Lizzie; they'll
smoke them out of the University like rats.  It's just possible that
going to see Volkov threw him off the scent; he may genuinely think the
daughter's innocent.  If that's the case, we'll have time to set it up
for her. But we won't know that till we find out what they've done with
the mother. There's no such thing as rehabilitation, that's balls.  It's
either the Gulag or the labour camps.  When was she arrested?  "

"Last Thursday morning," Elizabeth said.

"That's eight days ago," he said.

"If she's still in the Lubyanka by the end of the week, it means they're
investigating her.  And she won't hold out for long.  I'll try and get
our contact inside to make inquiries.  The first thing to do is get this
through to London. Lizzie, you make a full report and I'll send you on
the London flight with the Queen's Messenger tomorrow morning.  You can
brief the Brigadier on the situation at first hand.  "

"Thanks," she said.

"I'd like a trip home."

"You can have forty-eight hours," he said.

"I'll get the route organized for the daughter this end.  We've got to
get her out as quickly as possible.  I'll have some papers to give you,
too." He left her alone in the room, where she ran the tape once again
and began to type out a special report for James White.  After that she
erased the tape, gathered her papers and went off to pack for the flight
back to London. Sasanov lay awake and watched the dawn break in the
patch of sky visible from the bedroom window.  Like the other rooms, it
looked out onto a wall, but from his vantage point in the bed he could
see the sky at the top.  He had slept early, Davina beside him, and
woken as he did every night, at the hour when man's mortality is lowest.
His watch showed 4 a.  m.  ; he hardly needed to look at it to know that
it was the same time as the other nights. He didn't try to sleep; he
moved away from her, and stretched his arms above his head and stared
into the darkness waiting for the dawn.  There was no answer from his
wife; he didn't ask for news, because he had come to the conclusion that
there wasn't any.  The Brigadier couldn't withhold a refusal
indefinitely and he would know by Davina if she was hiding anything from
him. There just wasn't an answer, and he knew what that meant. They
wouldn't come.  He was dead and buried for them both, and they wanted to
be left in peace. He thought of his wife, Fedya, and the memory was so
fresh she could have been beside him instead of the English woman who
loved him. He remembered that brief honeymoon spent in the magic Crimean
springtime. They were both very young, and in spite of their enlightened
upbringing, there was an old-fashioned quality to their courtship and
the wedding in the Wedding Palace.  They had slept together before, but
the real consummation of their love took place in the sweet-scented
grass under a glorious sunrise. He had realized afterwards that this
subconscious memory had selected the postcard of the dramatic sunrise
over the pagan temple on Salisbury Plain. He had been in love with her
for a long time; his love for her remained when their passion had lost
its freshness.  She had been his friend, his mother, the recipient of
his most secret thoughts.  Living and working in a world of suspicion
and deceit, his private life was a complete contrast.  And from that
contrast he derived an independence of mind which welcomed friends like
Jacob Belezky; within his family circle, freedom of thought and
expression was a cherished thing.  Fedya had a simplicity which shamed
him, if he brought his professional standards home.  His daughter was
his companion and his pride;

clever, uncomplicated, a happy girl with a good future.  He had lived
within a charmed domestic circle, and his love for Jacob was as deep as
the love for his wife and child. Fedya's strength had helped him make
the decision to defect; he turned and gazed at the sleeping woman by his
side.  They had little in common, except a basic integrity of spirit.
Fedya had commonsense and intelligence but she was a mature woman who
had never suffered inhibitions.  Davina Graham's brilliant intuitive
mind was part of a personality that had not fully developed. In her
mid-thirties she was still growing up; her love for him was a mixture of
submission and protectiveness, with outbursts of independence when she
felt too exposed.  And the child still lurked in the background, finger
in mouth, uncertain of itself.  He needed impetus to start on his new
life, the quiet encouragement of his wife, with her understanding of him
and his innermost feelings.  Her silence gave him more comfort than the
dialectical arguments of an intellectual like Davina.  Davina could
never convince him that he was right in working against his homeland,
because she was not a part of it.  She would never understand what he
had given up, because she was not a Russian. She had thrust off the
bedclothes and he covered her against the early-morning cold in the
bedroom.  For the past week they had gone to bed and slept.  He hadn't
felt like making love to her, and she had been sensitive enough not to
approach him.  She looked unhappy, when she thought herself unobserved.
She did her best to interest him and to hold out hope of good news from
his family.  But her own confidence was sinking, and it was her
suggestion, not his, that she should slip out of the flat, and be driven
by one of their security men to see the Brigadier. She was going that
morning; he regarded the loneliness ahead of him with dull despair.  The
abyss was at his feet again, and he felt tempted to give up and let
himself fall into it. She moved, and reached out a hand to touch him. At
the same time she woke up.

"Ivan?  Are you awake?"

"Yes, it's very early.  Go to sleep."

"What's the matter?" He could see her eyes wide and searching, the look
of anxiety on her face.

"Nothing.  I'll sleep in a minute."

"No, you won't," she said.

"You've been doing this every night.  Waking up at four and just lying
there." She reached up and switched on the garish bedside light.  She
looked pale and un rested

"I'm going to make some coffee," she said.  She got up, and shivered.

"It's cold they don't put the central-heating on till six.  I'll turn on
the electric fire." She went out to the tiny kitchen, and began to make
the strong French coffee that he liked.  The room grew warmer and
lighter; when he sat upright he lost the little square of rosy sky and
closed his eyes against the drab brick wall.  She came back and poured
him a cup of coffee, climbed into bed in her dressing-gown and sat
sipping her own. They didn't speak.  She glanced at him quickly, not to
be seen doing so, and noticed how heavy and lifeless his face seemed in
repose. Russian melancholy, she thought, suddenly furious with him;
bloody Slav gloom and doom.  It's so real I could almost pluck it out of
the air. And then her anger melted, leaving the miserable ache of
unhappiness that was becoming the predominant feeling in her life.  He's
wretched because he's losing hope, and it doesn't matter what I've done,
I can't make up to him for them.  And I don't want to make up for them,
unless by some awful chance they can't or won't come to him.  I don't
want to possess this unhappy man.  I want to make him happy; I want to
give him back something because of all he's given me. probably without
even knowing it, she thought.  Just by wanting me and teaching me what
loving a man really means.

"Ivan," she said.

"Listen to me, please.  I know you're depressed; I know you don't think
anything is going to come of my seeing the Brigadier except a lot of
promises to gain more time. Isn't that true?  " He turned and looked at
her, and he nodded.  She had this way of directness, of seeing into his
thoughts and speaking them for him.

"Yes, that's very much what I feel.  You are doing it to try and help,
but there's nothing you can do.  They are not coming to me...  I know
it."

"I don't believe that," she said.

"I think they've had your message and by this time there must have been
an answer.  I'm going there today to find out what it is.  And I'm going
to tell you, even if it's bad news.  I can't stand by and let this drag
on and on.  I promised you we'd bring them over if they were willing to
come.  You trusted me, and I'm not going to let you down." He put his
arm round her and pulled her close.

"You're going to fight for me," he said.

"Don't fight too hard, Vina, or they'll think you've got involved with
me, and we'll be separated.  I know how these things work."

"So do I," she said.

"I won't play it like that, don't worry.  But I'm going to make them
tell me what's happened.  Will you try and be a bit more cheerful...
just till I get back?" He kissed her instead of answering; he felt no
desire, only tenderness because she was showing how much she was on his
side.  That was her way of loving him; to fight for him with her own
people, to turn to him with such a hungry response that his dulled
senses woke and, as the morning lightened into full day, once again they
made love. Humphrey Grant went to Heathrow to meet the BA flight in from
Moscow. He met Elizabeth Cole and the Queen's Messenger, and escorted
them to London. The report from the Embassy was handed over in the car.
They drove straight to the office where the night security man let them
in, and sped up in the lift to Grant's office.  He sat down with
Elizabeth and went through the report with her.

"We'd better run this through the copying-machine," he said.

"Make two copies.  I'll have the original filed." He didn't offer
Elizabeth a drink, or apologize for keeping her in the office after the
long Moscow flight.  She knew Humphrey Grant from her early stint spent
in the London office, and she wasn't at all surprised by his lack of
consideration.  She was too involved in the business to think about
being tired or wanting dinner.  She came back with the two copies.

"What do you think we should do?"

"I don't know yet," Grant said.

"Certainly not make a decision in a hurry."

"We must get the girl out," Elizabeth said.  He glanced up at her,
disapproving of her vehemence.

"That's up to the Chief.  You'd better be here by nine in the morning.
He'll want to see you.  "

"Right," she said.

"I'll get back and sort myself out."  She yawned, and Grant noticed how
very tired she looked.

"I'll get a taxi and drop you off," he said. She showed her surprise.

"Oh, that's very nice of you.  Thanks." They sat in silence till the
taxi picked up in Victoria Street turned into the Cromwell Road where
she was booked into a tourist hotel.

"You've done a good job," he said suddenly.

"We mustn't lose your network."

"No," she said.

"Does that mean you'll back me up tomorrow?"

"I won't make any promises," he answered.  She got out, pulled her small
hand-case with her, said, "Thanks for the lift," and shut the door.
Grant gave the driver his private address in Chelsea, and the cab drove
away. His service flat was small and impersonal; there were no
photographs, few personal belongings to give it identity with the man
who had lived in it for nearly five years.  He switched on the TV to the
late news programme, and settled down with a glass of beer. He didn't
feel hungry, and he never ate unless he felt like it.  There was an
interview with a well known left-wing MP who talked earnestly about the
injustices of capitalist society.  Grant knew the formula by heart; he
had heard the same reasons put forward in his university days, the same
appeal to idealism which had attracted so many men of real compassion
into a political system of tyranny on a gigantic scale.  He thought of
the wife of Ivan Sasanov, dragged into the dark, her memory a
diminishing cry like a light vanishing into a tunnel, until even the
pinpoint went out.  There was no justice for her, or for the millions
like her. Soviet power was built on the dead.  Blood and tears were its
lubricants. He leaned forward and angrily switched off.  Elizabeth Cole
was a good operative.  A steady type, not given to exaggeration.

"We must get the girl out."  But it wasn't so easy; it took time to make
the careful arrangements that had been used before.  And they might not
have any time at all.  Not if the mother was still in the Lubyanka being
interrogated. In-depth was the departmental euphemism for horrid pain
and mind-destroying drugs.  They wouldn't know the answer to that
question until their man in the Embassy had his reply from their contact
inside the prison itself.  That couldn't be hurried either. Intelligence
work had taught Humphrey Grant superhuman patience and a steely
capacity for taking risks when necessary.  He knew that the Russian
defector's'minder' was coming to the office in the morning, requesting
an urgent interview.  He had been making his own inquiries about her
since the slaughter at Halldale Manor.  Some interesting facts had been
turned up. Tomorrow might be a good time to face her with them, if she
attempted to be awkward.  He washed up his glass and dried it;
everything in the kitchen was tidy and the tray was ready for his coffee
and wheat meal biscuits in the morning. He went into his spartan room,
undressed and settled in-to bed with a book. He read detective stories
for relaxation. Davina Graham travelled in a London taxi from Shepherds
Bush to the office in St.  James's Place, at the back of Queen Anne
Street.  It was a London taxi, except that it never drove round the
streets or accepted an ordinary fare.  Its driver dressed like a London
cabbie, but he carried a gun.  He was a crack shot with small-arms and
an expert in self- defence.  He was one of a small fleet of a dozen
special transports, used for making pick-ups or taking high- security
passengers for short distances. In the back, Davina looked at herself in
her compact mirror.  Now she carried the tools of female vanity in what
used to be a handbag filled with practical things like a notebook and
spare biros.  She had reverted to the severe hair-style that Sasanov
disliked; she was pale and tired, but the reflection was carefully
made-up, with dark mascara that flattered her large eyes.  She didn't
realize how different she looked until she walked into White's office
and saw the quick appraisal that he gave her.  Grant's look was longer;
they had never liked each other. She was too aloof and competitive, and
he was coldly sarcastic if they disagreed.  None of this surface discord
worried the Brigadier, who believed it was better to divide a little in
order to rule over his divergent, clever pack of individualists.  He
shook hands with her warmly.

"You're looking very well," he said.

"I expected to see signs of strain, being shut up in that dreary little
place for so long.  I expect it has been a strain."

"It has, but not for me," Davina said.

"That's why I'm afraid I insisted upon breaking cover and seeing you.
Sasanov can't take any more.  There must be an answer from Moscow by
now." She stared hard at him, challenging.  He thought to himself that
Grant's information hadn't gone far enough in assessing the change in
Davina Graham. The very position she took up, sitting forward,
stiff-backed with her hands gripped into fists, portrayed the antagonist
instead of the colleague.

"Could you explain that more clearly?"  Grant interposed.

"What exactly docs it mean?" She turned to look at him, and the
Department's cruelly apt nickname flashed into her mind.  The Sea-Green
Incorruptible.  He had the skull-like face of Robespierre, with that
ghastly colourless skin.  He wouldn't waste any pity on Sasanov; he'd
never been known to see a human dilemma except in terms of advantage or
otherwise.  To him, Sasanov was like one of his own chess pieces to be
used in the game of East-West political warfare.

"I mean that he is giving up hope," she said.

"He's getting more and more apathetic, more unhappy.  Before, he was
restless and difficult. Now, I feel he's dying inside.  " There was a
moment of silence, and the Brigadier coughed gently.

"Aren't you being a little dramatic?"  Grant asked.

"Ivan Sasanov's record in the KGB doesn't accord with the man you're
describing.  What did you say dying inside?  As far as he was concerned,
other people did the dying." Davina turned right round to face him and
do battle.

"Yes," she said.

"People like the dissident Jacob Belezky, who was his childhood friend.
His death brought Sasanov over to the West.  He could have asked any
price he wanted for his co-operation with you.  I can think of some of
them who wanted a half-million in a New York bank account just for a
start.  All he's demanded is his wife and daughter.

I stand by what I said, and I ought to know, Humphrey;

I've been with him day and night for so many months now.  "

"Yes," the Brigadier interposed quietly, 'day and night.  Why didn't you
report that you were sleeping with him?  That was very irregular.  and
foolish.  " She faced him coolly; she had expected an attack as soon as
she came into the office and sensed the atmosphere.

"You were the person who first mentioned the possibility.  Only you
didn't think it very likely, did you, sir?  I didn't put my personal
sex-life into the report because I didn't see it had any relevance.  It
didn't affect Sasanov's decision to co-operate; it was just something
that happened between him and me.  It certainly hasn't changed his
feelings towards his own family.  If I've broken the rules by not
telling you, then I'm sorry.  That's all there is to it.  Except I'd
like to know how you found out.  You did promise there wouldn't be any
surveillance, any bugging.  "

"I kept the promise," White said.

"But inquiries were made into everybody after what happened at Halldale.
Your intimacy with Sasanov came to light as a result."

"I see," she said.

"What did you do, Humphrey, look at the sheets?"

"Miss. Graham!  " James White snapped the two words at her.

"That's enough.  You seem to have lost your sense of perspective over
this man. That last remark was most unnecessary.  Withdraw it at once. "

"I withdraw it," she said.  She turned so that her back was to Humphrey
Grant.

"You will have to be taken off the assignment."  Grant spoke coldly.

"And before you leave here you'll sign an undertaking never to see him
again." Davina turned towards him; she had become very pale.

"That isn't necessary," she said.

"I don't have to sign anything; I'm not a criminal."

"I have to remind you," he said, 'that, as a member of this department,
you are bound by the Official Secrets Act.  If you are required to sign
this document, you will do so.  And you will abide by it.  " She swung
away from Grant.

"Brigadier, you gave me this assignment. You trusted me and believed I
could manage Sasanov.  Well I have managed him. He's ready to give his
full co-operation; all he needs is some news. I've told you, he's losing
heart.  I know the man; I've lived with him in every sense of the word,
if you want to consider it like that.  If you take me away from him like
this, he'll break.  And you won't get him back.  " James White leaned
back and made an arch with his fingertips.

"It so happens that we do have some news to give him," he said.

"But I don't think he'll be very happy when he hears it.  Humphrey, pass
Miss. Graham Swallow's report, will you?" Neither spoke while she read
it.  She put it down on her knee and said slowly, "Oh my God."

"His wife has been arrested, and his daughter wants to come over to the
West. As you know him so well, what will his reaction be?" She got up
and put the report back on the desk.

"He'll go back to Moscow to get his wife released.  And he won't do
anything for you unless you agree to send him back.  That's what will
happen."

"He can't go back," the Brigadier said.

"Not now.  Other people's lives are at stake, and a network that's taken
more than a year of patient work to build up.  Sasanov is not going back
to wreck everything for us.  His daughter can't be left in Russia
because she knows one of the principal contacts.  We'll have to bring
her out.  He stays here, willing or not.  You'd better put the case to
him, Miss. Graham, and make it stick."

"You gave your promise to him," she said slowly.

"Your solemn promise. He could go back if he wanted to.  You never meant
to keep it, did you? "

"My dear," the Brigadier said quietly, 'my duty to my service and my
country takes precedence over my personal word to any man, Woman or
child.  He could have gone back before this happened.  He can't leave
now.  It's up to you to persuade him to help us, even if it's just to
revenge what's happened to his wife.  You say you have a very deep
relationship with him.  You must make him listen.  " She moved round the
room and stood looking out of his window, over the panorama of St.
James's Park.

"He won't trust me after this," she said.

"But I've got an idea.  I've had it in the back of my mind for a long
time, ever since he asked for his family." Grant hadn't spoken for some
minutes, he was watching her, assessing her.

"What idea is this?"  James White asked.

"It was rather vague at first," she said.

"I hadn't any details worked out, or any time in mind.  But it's getting
clearer now.  You want Sasanov to work with you; you want him to commit
himself totally to life in the West.  Then let me tell him you'll try
and get his wife exchanged.  And to prove my good faith to him, let me
go to Russia and help bring his daughter out."

"And that was your idea?"  Grant asked her.

"To take part in this rescue yourself?  Good God, I've never heard such
nonsense!  You've no training or experience of anything like this.
Absolutely impossible!"

"I know," she said.

"I'd need back-up.  But I could pass for an East German; my German is
good enough.  And a woman can get in and out of places easier than a
man.  I'd even picked out someone to go with me from here."

"Oh?"  the Brigadier said.

"Really who?"

"Peter Harrington."  She saw the surprise on his face and heard Grant
snort with contempt.

"You can't be serious, Miss. Graham.  Harrington made such a mess of his
job in New York he had to be recalled.  He's permanently on the shelf."

"I know about that," she said.

"He got into heavy drinking in the States and generally let himself
slide.  I talked to him about it;

about pulling himself together.  I hinted I might get him a second
chance.  I had this thing in mind and I wanted to have him with me.  I'm
seeing him after I leave you.  " She came round to the Brigadier's
chair.

"I need to do this," she said.

"Not just for Sasanov, but for myself too.  I've got to get his daughter
out."

"As Grant said, why you?"  the Brigadier asked.

"Because I've allowed myself to get emotionally involved with him,"
Davina said slowly.

"Not just sexually, that wouldn't matter.  But emotionally.  And the
best way to get out of it is to reunite him with his family.  Then I can
step out of the picture." She hesitated.

"I'll sign the undertaking before I leave the office, if only you'll let
me go.  I'll never see him again when this is over."

"Perhaps you'd be better just to resign your job with Sasanov," Grant
suggested drily, 'instead of dashing off on some fool's errand to
Russia.  "

"I'm not so sure," James White said.

"I don't think we should dismiss the idea out of hand.  Miss. Graham has
been very honest with us.  And she might be useful in putting our
original plan into operation."  He looked back to Davina.

"Go and keep your appointment with Harrington, but don't discuss this.
Grant and I will talk it over.  Come back to the office before you go
home to Shepherds Bush.  "

"Thank you," she said.

"I'll be back after lunch." When she had gone Grant said, "Good Heavens,
Chief, why did you say we'd think about it?  We've got our man lined up
to go in for Sasanov's family. You're not really considering Davina
Graham, are you?"

"As a matter of fact," James White said pleasantly, "I am.  I think she
might be a very good foil for Spencer Barr in Russia.  Look at the time;
I'm going to be late for lunch.  I'm seeing an old friend at the
Garrick.  Be here by three, will you, Humphrey?  We'll need to go over
the plan with Miss. Graham, before we say anything to Spencer Barr And
get that official undertaking drawn up."

"Well," Peter Harrington said, "What do you think of the new me?  Six
pounds lighter and not a drop of juice since we last met!"

"It shows," Davina said.  She smiled at him.

"You're looking very trim, Peter.  And about ten years younger." His
gratification was so obvious, she laughed.  He had a relaxing effect on
her, even when her nerves were strung like cat-gut after the morning's
interview.  He did look well;

his clothes were brushed and clean, his skin had a healthy colour; the
loss of flabby weight had made him look his proper age.

"I can say the same to you, Davy sorry, Davina.  Country air seems to
suit you." The local pub was full; they had managed to get a table in
the little snack-bar upstairs.  He ordered wine for her and drank water
himself. She didn't feel hungry; when the steak came it looked coarse
and unappetizing.  She left most of it.

"What's the matter?"  Harrington asked.

"You're not eating anything. Something go wrong this morning?  Don't
tell me that old SGI has been on your back too.  "

"What do you mean, too?  Has he been on yours?"  She glanced quickly at
him.

"Certainly has," he said cheerfully.

"He had me into his office and wanted to know exactly when I'd seen you
last. God knows how he knew I'd seen you at all, as it was out of school
wanted to know where we went and what we talked about, and how friendly
we were."

"And what did you tell him?"  Davina asked.

"Oh, just that you were madly in love with me, and I didn't know how to
fend you off," he said.

"He didn't think it was funny."

"I'm sure he didn't.  This was after the fire, I suppose."

"Yes; they ran quite a witch-hunt, including the families of the poor
sods who got burnt.  You were there, weren't you, with Ivan the
Terrible?" Davina shook her head.

"No comment, Peter.  Can't you stop playing the idiot for a minute?  I
want to talk seriously to you."

"Not another lecture?"  he raised his eyebrows and made a face.

"No, no lecture.  You asked me about my promise, remember?"

"I know I did," he said.

"Actually, I was very low that night.  My iron will and mighty
self-confidence were strangely wobbly.  I wanted a drink.  And then you
rang, and I got all emotional about a second chance."  He glanced
quickly at her, apologetic and hopeful at the same time.

"There isn't one, is there?  Any chance of anything" There could be,"
she said.

"I can't talk about it in any detail yet. But if something did come up,
involving both of us, something quite difficult how would you feel?  "
He leaned towards her.  His expression was very serious.

"I'd feel on top of the world," he said.

"And whatever it was, I wouldn't let you down.  What do you mean by
difficult?  "

"Not easy," she said gently.

"That's all I can tell you for now.  But I can definitely put your name
forward for this business.  Is that right?"

"Only if it's dangerous," he said lightly.

"It is," she said.

"Make no mistake about that."

"Oh, Christ."  He feigned alarm.

"Can't stand the sight of blood, especially if it's my own.  What are we
going to do, Davina - kidnap the Politburo?"

"You've guessed it," she said.

"I shouldn't have tried to fool you. Just to change the subject, tell me
about Grant asking questions.  Why should he ask you anything about me,
and what exactly was the line he was taking?  "

"He was looking for a lead on who tipped the Opposition off about
Halldale.

I know you can't say anything, but it was known to be a top-security
safe house.  But only known to people like myself who'd been in the
active field. They realized that the fire was no accident but an attempt
to silence your friend.  So they were worried about who might have
connected you with him. They knew I knew you were his minder, so
naturally they came to find out what, if anything, you'd told me and who
else I'd talked to.  I was able to tell old Robespierre you never gave a
clue to anything.  So he went away disconsolate.  I think he was quite
sorry it wasn't me.  I'm not his favourite type of employee."

"I'm not either."

"He doesn't like women," Peter Harrington said.

"He doesn't like anybody," she corrected him.

"When would you know about this job we might do together?"  he asked
her.

"In a day or two," she said.  She looked at her watch.

"It's nearly three I've got to get back."

"You going to the country?"

"I'm going to the office," she said.

"Can you give me a lift back?"

"Pleasure," he said. He paid the bill and took her arm as they left the
pub. He held it firmly until they reached his car.  He opened the door
for her and as she looked up at him, he bent down very quickly and
pecked her on the mouth.

"That's just to say thanks," he said.

"And I won't forget what you've done to help me.  I won't let you down."

"I know that," she said as they drove away.

"That's why I've asked for you." He waited with her by the lift.  His
department was below ground in the building.  She got in, and the doors
shut.  Harrington stayed, watching for the red eye on the indicator to
light up.  It stopped at the fifth floor.  He turned and walked away. He
knew she had gone to see the Chief. The roster of prisoners in the
Lubyanka was divided into three sections. Grade 1 included suspects
being held for interrogation. Grade 2 were criminals awaiting trial.
Grade 3 were the convicted on their way to the camps in the Gulag.  A
minor subsection noted a very few who were in fact released having been
in Grade 1.  The name of Fedya Sasanova was in Grade 1.  She was held in
a cell one level down. Below that level were the interrogation rooms,
sound-proofed, air-conditioned, sealed off from the outside world.  She
had not been taken down there yet. The cell was very small, walled and
floored in' concrete set in the ceiling was a powerful electric light
that was never turned off.  There was no means of telling day from night
or keeping any track of time; a shelf bed with two dirty blankets was
bolted to the wall so that for the first two days, Fedya Sasanova
crouched on the floor when she couldn't stand any longer.  A pail with a
lid was the only means of relieving herself.  For the first two days she
was not allowed to empty it.  She was given water and a vegetable soup
once a day and the effects of hunger were becoming part of the physical
misery other conditions.  She was spied on at regular intervals through
an eye-hole let into the cell door.  There was very little noise; the
silence was occasionally broken by sharp sounds.  By the end of the
third day Fedya began to move round the walls, to stop herself from
beating on the door and screaming. Then she found the inscriptions
deliberately left behind, to terrify each new occupant.

"God help me."

"Stop tomorrow.  Stop the pain."

"Lost.  Darkness.  I'm lost."  Scrawls made with the tip of the tin
spoon provided for the soup.  She knew it was the tool because she made
a feeble scratch with it herself.  The inscriptions terrified her.  So
did the defaced names.  There were many names, but few of the pitiful
phrases graven into the concrete walls.  Fedya wept and shivered, and
curled up in the corner to try and sleep.  The guards watched her from
the other side of the door.  By the end of the week she was tormented
with stomach pains and a blinding headache. They let down the shelf bed
and she threw herself on it with a cry and sank into a deep sleep. An
hour later she was roused and shaken to her feet.  The bed was raised
and padlocked.  She wailed like a child. At the end of ten days it was
decided to question her.  The guards were men; they came into the cell
with a bucket of hot water and a bar of scrubbing-soap.  She was told to
strip and wash.  When she hesitated, the younger guard ripped off her
filthy stained dress and threw it in the corner. She took off her own
underclothes and washed naked in front of them. She dried herself on a
thin little towel, and put on the clean prison overall. She tried to ask
them a question, but they didn't answer.  The man who had torn her dress
off pushed her into the corridor.  She took one look at the long, bare,
brightly lit tunnel, and her legs crumpled. She was hauled up on her
feet and supported on either side until they reached a lift.  Fear swept
over her, assaulting her sanity and self-control.  She was going to the
interrogation room. And then, just as suddenly, the fear receded.  They
were going up, not down. The relief was so euphoric that she visibly
straightened herself and stood independently of the two guards. They
came out into another corridor.  This time there were windows, but she
saw they were covered with a fine steel mesh.  No suicides, she thought,
no chance to escape through death. They had made death their servant.
When she was brought into Volkov's office she started to tremble all
over again.  He was sitting in a chair, drinking tea.  He got up when he
saw her, and said, "Bring Comrade Sasa- nova a chair. Would you like
some tea, Comrade?" She lowered herself onto the chair seat, gripping
the sides, her body visibly shaking.  Volkov looked at her as if
everything was normal and she was paying him a visit.

"Tea?"  he offered again.

"No, thank you, Comrade Volkov," she said.

"I would spill it."

"And why would you do that?"  he asked gently.

"Because your hands are shaking?" She nodded.

"Why are they shaking, Comrade?  Are you afraid?" She looked into the
pale eyes; they were like metal, and she screamed inwardly at her
jangling nerves to be still and let her concentrate. She had to answer,
and the stake was her life.  And not only her life;

her mind held feverishly to the reality.  But the life; of her child,
Irina. Irina who had brought the message from Sasanov, her daughter who
was in contact with dissidents. She said in a low voice, "Yes, I am
afraid, Comrade Volkov.  I don't know what I have done wrong."

"And you can't think of anything?"  The question was asked in the same
friendly tone.

"Please tell me," she begged.

"Tell me, Comrade, so I can confess it and ask for mercy."  Tears
trickled down her face. Volkov viewed her with distaste.  At least she
was clean;

he couldn't bear bad smells.  Before he questioned any suspect after ten
days in the prison, they were always washed and given clean clothes. She
was a stupid woman, he decided.  Being from an intellectual family
himself he recognized the peasant in her, and despised her.  The
daughter Irina had her father's intelligence and something of his looks.
Volkov knew Sasanov was fond of his wife.  He only regretted he couldn't
be there to see her.

"You mean you'll confess to whatever I tell you?  Is that what you think
of Soviet justice?"

"No, no, of course not.  I never meant that I'm just confused, I haven't
slept or eaten" Are you complaining about your treatment?  " She looked
at him in agony; he compared her with a trapped animal, surrounded on
all sides.  It didn't amuse him to torment her.  She was too stupid.  He
stopped wasting time.

"Why did you identify that body as your husband's when you knew it
wasn't?" She opened her mouth and stuttered.  But deep in her mind the
peasant mentality he dismissed with a sneer warned her not to deny it.
Tell the truth.  then perhaps he wouldn't ask any more questions.

"I thought it would be best," she said slowly.  She raised her head and
looked at him.

"We've been hoping he was dead.  Anything except he'd just disappeared.
I wanted to please the authorities."

"By telling a lie?"

"I didn't think it would matter.  I wanted to be back in favour, Comrade
Volkov.  I wanted to forget about my husband and start my life again."
The sharp maternal instinct urged her on.

"Irina had suffered so much because of him," she muttered.  She was so
ashamed when he vanished like that.  She lost all her friends.  She
wanted him to be dead.  We both wanted it.  That's why I said it was
him.  She was so happy, like a different girl.  " She lowered her head.

"It was wrong of me, Comrade Volkov.  I deceived you.  I deserve to be
punished."

"Yes," he said reprovingly, 'you do.  Your daughter came asking for you.
" He saw the quick, frightened glance and misinterpreted it.

"I reassured her," he said.

"I told her you would go to a correctional camp."

"You didn't tell her what I'd done?"  she begged.

"She'd never forgive me.  She's such a good Party member, if she thought
I'd lied, she'd never have me back."  She gave way to a real outburst of
noisy crying.  He finished his tea and nodded at the guards.  They came
and pulled Fedya Sasanova to her feet.

"Thank you, Comrade Volkov," she whimpered, 'thank you for not telling
her.  " He nodded again, more sharply, and she was hurried out of the
room. Thank him for not telling her daughter that the body buried with
so much publicity was that of an impostor.  He lit a cigarette and
poured another cup of hot tea.  There wouldn't be a trial for Fedya
Sasanova, because there mustn't be a record of her offence.  The KGB ran
its own camps and she could be sent there under his personal authority.
Her arrest must be kept a secret, if the lies told about her husband's
mental breakdown and suicide were to be maintained.  He thought about
Irina Sasanova.  He had impressed upon her that she must keep her
mother's misdemeanour a secret, if she hoped for a light sentence.  She
too could be picked up; he hesitated, considering the idea. But she was
a university student and a promising one.  It would cause too much
comment if she vanished.  He thought another interview would be the
best.  An invitation, perhaps.  She was young, and quite pretty. There
was a freshness that appealed to him.  He wrote a personal note and sent
it down for his driver to deliver to the Sasanov's flat.  It suggested
that Irina might like to have dinner with him at the Bear Restaurant
near Zhukova, twenty miles outside Moscow. It was an elite and secluded
place, reserved for senior officials of the Party.  It was within twenty
minutes' drive of his country dacha.

"Believe me," Davina said again, 'we'll get her exchanged and we're
going to get your daughter out.  It's all going ahead.  " She sat on the
arm of his chair and put her arms round him. He had gone into the
bedroom when she first told him of Fedya's arrest, and she had waited
helplessly outside. She knew when he came back that he had been crying.

"I'll go back," he said.

"I'll give myself up."

"That won't help her," she said.

"Be sensible; you know the way Volkov works.  If a defector had come
back and tried to bargain, would you have let his wife go?"

"No," he said.

"I'd have arrested him and used her to make him denounce others, confess
to whatever we needed at the time.  And I'm humane by Volkov's
standards." He looked at her, and she saw that a burning anger had
replaced despair.

"I was never cruel for its own sake.  Volkov is cruel.  The next will be
my daughter."

"No, it won't," she said quickly.

"From our information she's in favour with him.  And she's been clever
enough to play on it.  Our people are going ahead to arrange her escape
as quickly as possible. And don't lose hope for your wife.  The Chief
promised to do a deal. And he never breaks his word," she said.  Except
when it suits him, was her private aside.  Thank God she had been able
to argue Sasanov out of trying to go back.  She felt a desperate
tenderness for him; she had been close to breaking into tears herself
when she told him what had happened to his wife.

"They won't bother to save Irina now," he said slowly.

"Why should they?  Fedya's in prison and I can't go back.  I have a
motive for working with them now revenge for what's happened to my wife.
Why should your Chief risk his agents going into Russia?"  He pulled
away from her and stood up.

"They'll lie to you, so you can lie to me.  Irina will never come."

"Are you going to work fully with us?"  she asked him.

"Yes," he said.

"At the beginning it was for Jacob and his principles;

now it's for Fedya.  I'll work with your people;

I'll give them everything I know.  " Suddenly he shouted.

"I want to destroy Volkov, I want to smash them all to pieces!"  He
turned his back on her and covered his face with his hands.

"Ivan," she said after a pause, "Ivan, please don't...  I'm going out
myself to get Irina.  I'm going to Russia to bring her back." He
swivelled round to face her.

"You?  No, I don't believe it" It's true," she said.

"It was all agreed this afternoon.  Now you know we're not going to
cheat you.  You're going to another safe house, where Grant and a team
will start serious debriefing.  You've got to work with them while the
rescue operation goes ahead.  That's the only condition."

"You go to Russia?"  He repeated.

"No, that's impossible.  You can't..  It's ridiculous you don't even
speak Russian."

"I speak very good German," she answered.

"And in any case there's no argument.  I'm going." He didn't move, he
stared at her.

"This is madness.  You will be caught.  I forbid it; I won't work, I
won't cooperate!"

"Yes, you will," she came to him and placed her hands on his shoulders.

"Because I'm going anyway.  I asked to do it, for a very special
reason."

"You want to leave me," he said.

"I want to make you happy," she said quietly.

"I know what's happened to me and it's been happening for some time. I'm
on your side now; my people know it, too.  I love you, Ivan, and that's
why I've got to go and bring your daughter back.  Then I can get out of
your life and try to sort out my own." His arms closed round her and she
leaned against him.

"You've given me so much.  I want to give you what we promised."

"If anything happens to you," he said slowly, "I have nothing left."

"Nothing will happen," she promised.

"I want to see your face when I bring Irina home...  Now why don't we
get ourselves a drink and I can tell you what has been arranged." She
felt his hand stroke the back of her hair; he was not normally tender in
a physical way.  He muttered something in Russian which she couldn't
understand; and then he said, "I'll say that to you in English when you
come back." They came to take Sasanov to Grant's safe house in Hampshire
at 3.  30 the following afternoon.  A message had warned Davina to pack
for him and get ready to leave the flat herself.  There were two
security men;

and a third man she didn't know who arrived at the flat shook hands with
her and introduced himself to Sasanov as John Kidson.  One man took the
bags down, while the other lingered by the front door in the little
passageway. John Kidson asked if Sasanov was ready.  He had a pleasant
anonymity;

the kind of man whose eye colour, height and type would be impossible to
remember five minutes after he had gone. Sasanov said he was ready to
go, and there was a slight, awkward pause while Kidson opened the door
into the hall for him.  He went up to Davina; he held out his hand and
she shook it.

"Goodbye," she said.

"I hope everything goes well for you."

"I hope so," he said. They looked at each other for a long private
moment; Kidson had turned his back on them. Sasanov took her in his
arms.

"Goodbye," he whispered.

"Come back to me." Then he walked away.  The door closed and Davina was
alone. Her own case was packed; the flat had a deserted air.  There was
an ashtray with stubs in it, and a glass with a film of vodka in the
bottom where Sasanov had had a final drink.  She walked into the
bedroom; the bed was stripped, nothing had been left behind.  The room
held no imprint of them. It was empty and dead, like the rest of the
place.  She emptied the ashtray and washed up the glass.  Then she
dialled a number on the phone.  It connected with the security office on
the ground floor.

"I'm ready to go," she said.

"I'll be in the hall in a couple of minutes."

"Right," came the answer.

"The cab'll be waiting outside." She was driven to the office in St.
James's Place.  The first outline of what was code-named Operation
Skylark was scheduled for discussion in the Brigadier's office at 4.  30
that afternoon.  Jeremy Spencer-Barr, Peter Harrington and Davina Graham
met each other in the outer office at exactly 4. 15.

"Hello," Jeremy said when he saw her. He showed no surprise, yet she
felt instinctively that her appearance was a shock. But the real shock
was Peter Harrington.  Spencer Barr didn't try to hide his surprise.  He
said, "Good Lord," just loud enough for them to hear, and turned to look
out of the window. Behind his back, Harrington lifted two fingers, and
Davina frowned at him. The Brigadier's secretary saw the gesture, and
smiled.  Harrington had been around for a long time, and Spencer-Barr
was not well liked. At 4.  30 exactly the buzzer sounded, and she told
them they could go inside.

"Daddy?  Hello darling, it's me." Captain Graham beamed with pleasure at
his younger daughter's voice.

"Charley!  What a nice surprise your mother tried you a couple of times
last week, and couldn't get an answer.  She left messages on your
answer-phone thing."

"I know, I meant to call back, but I've been so rushed...  Listen Daddy,
could I come down this weekend?  You're not full up, are you?"

"Of course not," he said eagerly.

"We've got a couple coming to lunch on Sunday, but otherwise nothing.
We'd love to see you, Charley. You're not bringing anyone are you?  "

"No," she said.

"I've no one to bring at the moment, actually.  Has Davina been down
again?"

"No," her father said.

"I'm afraid she doesn't bother to keep in touch.  We'll see you Friday
evening.  Are you driving down or coming by train?  I can meet you ' "
I'm driving," she said.

"I'll be down in time for a nice drink.

"Bye darling." Captain Graham hurried into the garden.  His wife was on
her knees, weeding a bed where the roses were coming into flower.  She
was so absorbed she didn't hear him call from the house; she dug with
the little trowel, carefully extracting the weeds down to the root,
murmuring to her flowers as she worked.

"There, that's got that nasty thing out heavens, what a long root! You
need a little drink of Liquinure, don't you?  " She looked up as he
called from close by.

"Darling, Charley's just rung.  She's coming down on Friday."

"Oh, good.  That'll be lovely," she called back.  Her husband looked so
animated that she smiled to herself.  He did adore his younger daughter.
It had never occurred to Mrs. Graham to be jealous.  She was delighted
to see her husband so happy, with a spring in his walk as he went back
down the path to the house. Davina hadn't been in contact with them
since she came down with the Polish diplomat, oh, nearly two months ago.
The daffodils had all been in flower at the time.  Mrs. Graham had a
habit of noting time by the flowering seasons in her garden.  The roses
were coming put, and that was June.  The full glory of her herbaceous
border was July into August. She was looking forward to seeing Charley;
maybe one day she'd find the right man and really settle down.  It was
no good hoping for grand-children from Davina.  She settled down to the
weeding again, and carried on her gentle monologue to her flowers.
Charley Ransom put the telephone down with a pleased little sigh.  It
was so lovely to be able to ring and just fly home whenever she felt
down.  They were darlings, the way they never said no when she wanted
something.  It was marvelous to be loved so much.  She told herself that
quite often, but especially if she was bored and lonely, which
occasionally happened. It had happened lately, with the end of her long
affair with the man who was dotty about the theatre, and nothing to
amuse her but last-minute invitations from jeremy Spencer-Barr.  Every
time she went out with him, she made up her mind not to go again.  He
was charming and could be very interesting, but there was nothing
personal in his attitude to her.  He never told her she looked nice, or
sent flowers or telephoned unless he wanted to take her out. His effect
on her was not a good one.  He made her insecure, and there was no other
man in her life to assure her that she was as beautiful and irresistible
as ever.  Besides which, her ex-husband was being very difficult about
the ownership of her expensive flat.  She needed to go down to Marchwood
and nestle under the parental wings for a couple of days.  And there was
something else that niggled at her.  Jeremy Spencer-Barr again; not just
his indifference to her, but his constant and inexplicable interest in
her sister Davina.  She had spent some time thinking about this, and
wondering why it should make her uneasy. She had been merely irritated
by it at first, and then worried that he was trying to find out about
her sister from motives of professional jealousy. Charley didn't want to
be the means of hurting Davina in her career, dreary though it sounded.
After all, she had nothing else. That was the point when Charley stopped
thinking about her.  The broken engagement was such a long time ago. Any
ordinary woman would have put it aside and got on with her life.  As her
father said, she was determined to be a spinster.  But it would be nice
to talk to her father and make sure that Jeremy wasn't trying to cause
her any trouble. The evening stretched ahead of her without engagement.
She never understood some of her women friends when they claimed to like
being alone.  But then they had husbands who went on business trips; she
supposed it was nice to be solitary if you lived with someone all the
time.  But she wasn't involved with a particular man and she hated the
rare occasions when she was by herself.  She didn't even enjoy having
the chance to read or wash her hair, or go to bed early and watch the
TV. She started going through her address book to see who she could ring
up. Brigadier White sat back and listened to Humphrey Grant.  He admired
his economy of words and the speed at which he came to the point.  He
also observed very carefully the faces of the three people sitting in
the room, listening.  Davina Graham first.  Very intense, concentrating
totally.  Pale and rather strung-up.  The interview with Sasanov must
have been painful.  He was on his way to Hampshire and a new set-up,
where the skilled interrogators headed by Grant would begin to unlock
his mind.  The link with Davina had been broken now.  Missing her might
make him malleable.  There was a man on the team especially selected to
get onto a personal level with the Russian. Grant was too chill and
humourless to be any use for that.  Pity about Davina.  The least likely
woman he could think of to throw everything away for a man.  But that
was women, after all.  Like all her sex Davina Graham had her own X
factor.  The vulnerable spot for the right man; or, as in this case, the
wrong one.  He understood her anxiety to go on the mission to Russia
better than she did herself.  Her eagerness was pathetic; she was
hanging on to every word Grant spoke.  It just happened to fit into the
Brigadier's own plans to let her have her way. Then Peter Harrington.
Tidy, sober, only occasionally making one of his ill-timed jokes,
listening attentively to Grant, but not completely absorbed like Davina.
Able to shoot a look at Spencer-Barr to see how he reacted, and then to
the Brigadier himself.  A man trying for a second chance.  An operative
who had once been very good on active missions, who'd begun to slide in
a desk job in Washington until he had lost credibility at home and had
to be recalled.  A man who'd won the woman's sympathy and confidence.
And then the younger man, Jeremy Spencer-Barr.  He had everything right,
including an uncle in the Treasury and a senior Minister to recommend
him.  A dazzling academic career, and a personality like a well-cut
diamond.  Smooth, hard and brilliant.  A hungry type, the Brigadier
thought.  Hungry for success.  He had few friends in the Department. His
colleagues talked of him as bright and ambitious; he wasn't popular with
anyone.  A cold type, with little or no feeling for others.  He was
concentrating on Grant's briefing, poised like an athlete at the line.
His tutor at the language centre described his Russian as remarkable.
This mission was his big chance, the opportunity that comes to men in
his profession once or twice in the course of their careers.  It had
come very early to Spencer Barr He wasn't happy about his two
colleagues.  His expression showed distaste whenever he glanced at
Harrington; his manner with Davina Graham was wary.  He didn't like the
prospect of working with either of them.  The Brigadier speculated why,
as he leaned back, himself part of Humphrey Grant's audience. The plan
so far worked out was comparatively simple.  Davina and Peter Harrington
were to go into East Germany as West Germans.  When they arrived in East
Berlin, they were to disappear, being replaced by an East German couple.
It was a convenient way of getting agents out, although Grant didn't
specify this.  In East Berlin, Davina and Harrington would be contacted,
outfitted with new identities and passports, with visas for entry into
Russia.  They would travel as husband and wife with an Iniourist booking
to the Black Sea resort of Livadia in the Crimea.  It was a very popular
holiday spot for tourists as well as native Russians.  One of its
attractions was the old Tsarist Palace, where the Romanovs had spent
their summers.  Spencer-Barr was to travel alone and his destination was
Moscow.  His cover was as a replacement for one of the trade secretaries
in the Moscow Embassy.  He would go to Moscow ahead of Harrington and
Davina and take charge of the arrangements being made with Irina
Sasanova.  Grant announced this and then paused.

"Any questions so far?"

"Isn't it a bit dicey, having a new man make contact with the Daughter?"
Peter Harrington deliberately used the code name for Irina.

"No reflection on Spencer-Barr," he said, 'but aren't her present
contacts enough?  It seems to be adding to the risks to send another man
in.  Jeremy is certain to cause comment when he arrives; they usually
put a top-priority security screen for at least six months on anyone who
comes out.  " Grant stared at him, his eyebrows slightly lifted.

"I didn't know you were a Moscow expert," he said.

"I'm not," Harrington answered.

"But I've been around here long enough to know a number of people who
were. After all, you did ask for questions, didn't you?"

"Yes," Grant snapped.

"So long as they were relevant to your own part in the operation.  I
suggest Spencer-Barr is the person to concern himself with the Moscow
end." Harrington shrugged.

"I suppose so.  One point about Davina and me; if we're going in to the
Crimea what backup will we have for getting out, if something goes wrong
in Moscow?"

"None at all," Grant said.

"If Moscow goes wrong, you won't have an option except to swim for it.
If you're lucky and it's the right date, you'll be picked up by the boat
intended for the Daughter.  Miss. Graham?  Any questions?"

"Has there been any further news of Fedya Sasanova?" There was a little
silence; everyone seemed to be looking at her.

"I don't see the relevance," Grant retorted.

"It could make a difference to the Daughter's attitude." Peter came to
the rescue.

"If she'd been released, for instance.  The girl mightn't want to come
out." The Brigadier interposed then.

"I don't think there's any chance of that," he said gently.

"The latest word from Moscow was that she was still in the Lubyanka.
It's too soon to know whether she's being interrogated or just kept
there till they decide where to send her. She won't be set free.  "

"These agents coming over from East Germany in our place," Davina said,
'are they really refugees or Western agents?  If they're refugees isn't
it very risky to trust them?"

"Miss. Graham."  Grant's tone was acid.

"It's well understood that this is your first active mission.  But do
try to ask questions that make some sense.  You can safely leave the
security aspect to us." He turned away from her, and behind his back,
Harrington mouthed the word 'bastard' at Davina and grinned
encouragingly at her.

"Mr.  Spencer-Barr?"  It was obvious from Grant's changed tone that he
was relieved to be dealing with someone capable.

"I fly to Moscow as a replacement," Jeremy said.

"I shall be under surveillance as a newcomer.  Any contacts I make will
be noted, my movements will be monitored.  Doesn't this inhibit me for
some months, as Harrington said?"

"I don't believe so," Grant answered.

"The way in which you take up the post will remove any suspicion that
you are connected with us. Besides which, we intend to recall Swallow.
Her connection with the Daughter and the dissident contacts has gone on
long enough.  The Russians will be busy watching her replacement to see
if Swallow's pattern repeats itself.  It won't, of course, because you
will be acting instead.  Anything else?  "

"Who will my immediate superior be?"  Spencer Barr asked.

"The senior trade councillor, he's an old Moscow man.  But he'll be
instructed to give you a free hand.  Your job is to position the
Daughter so that she gets to the rendezvous point where Harrington and
Miss. Graham can pick her up.  Your responsibility ends once she's made
contact with them."

"Thank you, sir."  Jeremy sat back.  Grant sat down and the Brigadier
gave a little cough to gain their attention.

"Grant has given you the bare outline," he said.

"You will each receive your personal instructions with details like
timetables, hotels, emergency contacts and your contact in East Berlin,
who'll pass you on.  I needn't stress how important this mission is.  If
it fails we may find that Sasanov is useless to us, because he believes
we betrayed his trust.  That is one reason why Miss. Graham has very
gallantly offered to go.  He has a high regard for her and complete
faith in her integrity.  This is a good opportunity to congratulate her
on a superb job; we owe Sasanov's cooperation entirely to her skill in
managing him."  He smiled at Davina, and Grant managed a wintry grimace.

"I needn't impress on any of you how dangerous it is to try and abstract
a Russian national.  And not only are your lives at stake, and the
Daughter's, if anything goes wrong;

but we shall almost certainly lose a number of agents and a network that
has taken a long time to establish.  Harrington, you're the experienced
operator in the field.  You'll have plenty of back-up, which you'll be
told about in due course.  Spencer-Barr has an equally difficult task,
but he will have the Embassy to cover for him, and he can claim
diplomatic immunity if he gets into trouble.  You and Davina,
Harrington, are out in the open.  I have to say this when I send people
out.  If you get caught, we know nothing about you.  And there won't be
much we can do to help you for a very long time.  If ever.  Is that
clear?  "

"Quite clear," Davina said.

"Yes."  Harrington and Spencer-Barr nodded together.

"Good," the Brigadier said.

"I hand you over now to Grant's chaps. They'll start kit ting you out
with everything you'll need. Spencer-Barr, you're due to leave at the
end of the week.  I shan't see any of you again till you come home.  So
I'll wish you luck now.  " He shook hands with them in turn.  He
murmured to Davina, "Take care, my dear.  Remember, you asked to do
this."

"I know I did," she said.

"Don't worry about me." They went down in the lift together.

"A week," Spencer-Barr said.

"That's rather quick, isn't it?"

"Time enough to stick on a false beard," Harrington grinned.
Spencer-Barr gave him a cold look.

"You're the one who's going to need that," he said. The lift doors
opened and they came out.  Davina nudged Harrington.

"He won that round," she said.

"For the first and last time," Peter Harrington said.

"Come on, let's get a cup of coffee."

"I won't, thanks," she said.

"I want to get on as quickly as possible.

I'll clear up some stuff that needs filing.  You can give me dinner
tonight.

"Delighted."  He looked pleased.

"Where shall I pick you up?"

"At Burton Court, Flat 5.  I suppose I'm allowed to go home" I should
expect so.  The form is to gather us all under one roof forty-eight
hours before we go.  Or it used to be.  Things may have changed.  " She
went on to the little office which had been closed up during her months
away and spent the rest of the late afternoon filing copies of her last
report on Sasanov, and going through her desk, putting papers through
the shredder.  The calendar was unchanged at the date when she first
went to Halldale Manor.  November 7th of the previous year.  Now it was
June.  Eight months.  It felt like her whole life.  She put a call
through to Grant's office to check that she could be found at her own
flat, and was told to go down to the language centre the next morning
for her first briefing on the latest colloquialisms in Germany. The
building also housed the forgeries and special effects department. She
would have a busy time. Humphrey Grant spoke to the Brigadier on the
telephone.

"I let them go home," he said.

"She stayed in her office clearing up till nearly seven.  No telephone
calls. Arrived at her flat without any detours.  Harrington arrived at
eight and they left for a Chelsea restaurant by 8:45.  Harrington had
gone back to his place by 6:40; he made three calls, they're all being
checked.  Then on to Burton Court and out to dinner.  Spencer-Barr
stayed in his office, clearing up, then drove to the International
Sportsman's Club and played squash.  He went home too and hasn't been
out.  His calls are being checked out.  The girl-friend is staying with
him."

"Well," James White said, 'we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?  "
He was relaxing in a big armchair, with a glass of port beside him. His
wife was reading on the other side of the fireplace; the room was warm
and subtly lit with lamps, and a picture light showing off a fine
Raeburn portrait of an officer in scarlet and white.  There was a long
military tradition in the Brigadier's family.

"Yes," Grant agreed.

"But if anything is going to bring our friend, the Mole, out into the
open, it's this.  Goodnight, Chief" Goodnight," the Brigadier said, and
putting the receiver down, he reached for his port.

"Is it true?  Did you really volunteer for this just to convince Ivan
the Terrible we were playing straight with him?" Davina put her glass of
wine down.  Dinner was over and they were talking over coffee.
Harrington hadn't drunk anything but water.

"Partly," she said.

"And partly on my own account."

"I don't see it," he said.

"It's a high-risk operation; you've no practical field experience.  I
can't think why the hell they ever let you in on it in the first place."

"Because I suggested it," she answered.

"I asked to be allowed to go."

"You still haven't said why," he reminded her. She hesitated.  She had
resolutely turned his questions about Sasanov whenever he asked them;
now she was no longer in contact with him, and Harrington was in the
same position of trust as herself.  It would be a relief to talk to
someone who might understand.

"I got myself into a mess," she said.

"This seemed the best way out of it."

"No wonder you're in this bloody outfit," Peter exclaimed.

"Can't you give a straight answer?  What sort of a mess" I got involved
with him," she said.

"Is that clear enough for you?"

"Oh, Christ," he groaned.

"It's beginning to be.  Bed and the rest of it.  Doesn't sound like
you."

"No, I'm sure it doesn't."  Her tone was sharp.

"Doesn't sound like good old frigid Davy, who wouldn't look at a man.
And no man would look at her.  But it happens he did." She searched for
a cigarette, and lit it before he could find his lighter.

"And that's what brought him round," he suggested.  He didn't know
whether she was angry or upset; her cheeks were very pink.

"Well done. You're a very attractive woman.  "

"Then why were you so surprised?"  she countered.

"I'm not a very attractive woman, Peter, and you know it.  But he liked
me, and I suppose it was the first time anyone had ever wanted me.  Not
loved me, but wanted me.  Must sound ridiculous to you, but there it
is."

"So you fell in love with him," he said quietly.

"I see."

"No, you don't."  She stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette.

"I didn't fall in love like some sickly old maid.  I liked him first.  I
liked him in bed and I liked him as a person.  And then, after a time I
got fond of him.  He used to get very depressed, worrying about his wife
and daughter.  They meant so much to him and he couldn't relate to
Britain or the West at all.  He had to have them with him before he
could face the future as an exile.  And I'd promised him they were safe
and we'd get them out if they wanted to come.  I had to keep his hope
alive.  You get very close to someone when you're doing that.  I always
had this idea at the back of my mind- that I should carry the promise
through and go and get them.  I don't know why, because at that time I
wasn't nearly so mixed up with him.  Maybe I was getting there and
didn't know it."

"Funny," Harrington said.

"If you were in love with him, you wouldn't have wanted his wife and
daughter to come over, would you?  Not even a spot of jealousy?"

"No," she shook her head.

"I just wanted him to be happy." He gave her a quizzical look.

"You really do care about him, don't you?"

"Yes," she said.

"But that's the point of this.  We've got no future;

he has to have someone else.  And I've got to get him out of my system.
This is the way to do it.  "

"And do the Chief and old Sea-Green know any of this?"  he asked her.

"They know some of it," she said.

"I didn't say we were sleeping together, and when they were
investigating the fire at Halldale they went snooping round everyone,
including me.  So they found out.  The Chief wasn't very pleased because
I hadn't included it in my report."

"I can imagine."  Harrington watched her take another cigarette out and
this time he was ready to light it for her.  She was very strung up
while she talked; he noticed the slight tremor in her hand, the nervous
smoking.

"I stood up to him over Sasanov's daughter.  I told him we'd promised to
get his family out, and if we didn't he would probably go back and give
himself up."  She smiled a sour little smile for a moment.

"That's when he told me we couldn't let Sasanov go.  So much for
promises."

"It must have shaken you," he said.

"Your first experience of perfidious Albion in St.  James's Place?"

"I was disgusted," she said.

"I let them see it."

"I'll bet you did," he said softly.

"And then you volunteered to go into Russia like Joan of Arc and bring
the daughter back?  I wish I'd seen their faces."

"The only time they looked a bit odd was when I suggested taking you,"
she retorted. Harrington grinned.

"Touche.  So you went back and gave Ivan the news. How did he react?  "
She hesitated for a moment, turned the cigarette over in her fingers.

"He didn't want me to go," she said.  Harrington leaned forward and
tipped more wine into her glass.

"That sounds to me as if he was hooked on you too," he said.

"Well, it doesn't matter now," Davina answered.

"He's gone to Grant's people and I'll never see him again.  Which is
just as well.  Let's get the bill, shall we?  It's been a very long
day." He came out onto the pavement, and they waited for a taxi.

"What's happened to your car?"  he asked.

"Gone into the pool: I couldn't use one after Halldale."

"I thought that's where you were hiding Ivan," he said.

"You and he were bloody lucky not to get fried to a crisp in that
place."

"We certainly were."  She tugged at his arm.

"There's a cab!"

"How did you manage to escape?"

"We weren't there," she said. The cab pulled into the kerb and he opened
the door for her.

"I'll drop you first, Davina...  Where were you then?" She didn't know
how triumphant she sounded.

"We stopped off at a motel.  He wanted to go to bed with me." Harrington
glanced at her, and then the old casual grin appeared and he hooked his
hand through her arm and squeezed it.

"You must be quite something, darling.  I'll have to see if I can live
up to all this when we're in Russia." The safe house in Hampshire had
been bought by the Ministry of Defence as an officers' training college.
It was an ugly mid-Victorian mansion, the monument to a successful City
merchant whose descendants had been only too glad to get rid of it after
the war.  It had a great advantage in its dual role of putting likely
young officers through assault courses and the rougher arts of war, and
of accommodating a team of experts in complete seclusion. It was not, by
any standards, warm.  Its polished floors and bare staircase gave it a
public-school atmosphere, which made some of its incumbents nostalgic
for the discomforts of their youth.  The quarters set aside for Sasanov
and Grant's team were in the south wing; they were centrally heated,
close-carpeted and served by a special staff and a separate kitchen.
Sasanov looked out of the window onto the parkland.  The window was
open, and faint shouts of mock battle drifted across the warm summer
air. The man assigned to him in place of Davina was setting up a
chess-board in the room; he was John Kidson, who had collected him from
the flat. He glanced at the Russian's broad back from time to time.  He
stood like a tree, blocking out the light.  Kidson spoke Russian, Polish
and Hungarian, and he was ten years older than Sasanov.  He had seen a
long and arduous service in the Balkans during the war, and his gifts
for insinuating himself into other men's confidence had been invaluable
in dealing with the partisans. He had been Sasanov's constant companion
for the last three days. Grant had made a brief appearance, shaken hands
with the Russian and told him that everything was being set up and would
be ready for him before the end of the week.  In the interim, he must
try and relax and not attempt to discipline his memory.  It would work
better without pressure.  He hoped that Kidson was looking after him.
Kidson proceeded very slowly.  He didn't intrude on Sasanov.

"If you want to be alone," he said the first day, 'for God's sake say
so.

I'll take myself off for a walk.  If you want a game, or just to chat,
I'm here.  But I won't be a nuisance to you.  " Sasanov had been dour,
but he didn't ask Kidson to leave him.  He didn't want to be left alone.
He seemed content to read the papers or spend time staring out of the
window.  On the second evening they had a game of chess and to Sasanov's
amazement Kidson beat him.  After that they played through until the
small hours.

"It's set up," Kidson said.

"Do you want a game?" Sasanov turned round slowly.

"What are all those shouts outside?"

"Officers' training course.  They're quite tough, you know.  These chaps
are rather select material; I wouldn't like to go through their training
here." Sasanov's expression was cynical.

"The next war won't be fought by armies.  You're wasting your time
teaching men how to be conventional soldiers.  The war will be over in
twelve hours."

"If it's nuclear, of course," Kidson agreed.

"But there might be a quick land-attack without the ultimate weapons.
Otherwise what's the point of an army your size?  And a navy and air
force?"

"It supports our economy," Sasanov said.

"And it fright ens the world. When Russia fights, it will be to
obliterate the enemy. Satellite-based missiles.  A lightning strike so
fast and instantaneous that there won't be time for full reprisals.
We'll lose a city or two Moscow, Leningrad.  You will lose the war
before you've had time to fight it. That's what will happen.  " He
closed the window.

"Do you want a game?"  Kidson repeated. Sasanov sat down heavily,
dropping his weight into the chair.

"No.  I'd like a drink."

"Of course."  Kidson poured them a glass each of the Stolnychaya that
the Russian liked.

"I've never quite believed in what you say," he said after a while.

"If the Soviet Union is going to turn the Western world into a
wasteland, what good will it be to her if she is the victor?  At the
present calculation, nuclear war would make the areas affected totally
uninhabitable for a period of at least fifty years.  Even then the
mutations in plant life would make it impossible to cultivate the land;
the seas would be empty, the whole balance of nature which makes life
possible would have been irrevocably upset.  You'd rule over a
graveyard."

"An American graveyard," Sasanov said.

"Not Europe, or the East.  We'd have those fall into our hands as soon
as America was destroyed.  China could be subdued in a conventional war.
We would have all the mastery we wanted, and across the Atlantic there
would be this huge poisonous continent, where there was no life of any
kind.  Teaching a lot of men to climb assault courses isn't going to
stop that."

"I suppose not," Kidson agreed.

"What's going to prevent it happening?" Sasanov frowned, swigged at his
drink.

"Encirclement of the Soviet Union," he said.

"In the air, on the land and in the seas.  Close to the heart of the
country. That's what America and the West are trying to achieve, isn't
it?  But they're losing.  They're losing the game." Kidson said,
"Political weakness, economic recession, oil, inflation. We know all the
arguments, but we're not getting many answers at the moment.  We need
answers and very soon, if you're not going to be proved right.  And I
take it you don't want to be, or you wouldn't be here." It was the first
time Kidson had stepped into his real role.

"No," Sasanov said.

"I don't want it to happen.  I don't want our political system to win.
And I don't want to see even one stray nuclear bomb fall on a Russian
city."

"You can do a lot to avoid that possibility," Kidson said.

"And you've had plenty of time to think about it.  Even a little insight
into living in the West.  We're keeping our side of the bargain and
you've said you were ready to keep yours.  Are you?"

"Yes," Ivan Sasanov said.

"I am ready now.  I will start with your team as soon as they like.  But
one question- where is Vina Graham?" Kidson was prepared for this.

"She leaves England this evening," he said. It was a lie, because at the
moment she was in the language centre practising her German.  But
Sasanov wouldn't want to hear the truth.  He needed a catalyst to set
the scene for his betrayal of his country and his past.  His face
changed for a second; the meaning was difficult to assess.  It became a
heavy mask again.  He finished his vodka.

"When do we begin," he said.

"I want to begin today."  Kidson got up and rang through on the internal
telephone.  He muttered into it, and Sasanov didn't bother to listen. He
looked up at the Russian and nodded before he put the receiver down.

"Downstairs in the conference room at three o'clock," he said. The Bear
Restaurant is situated outside Moscow near Zhukova.  It is built on the
lines of a log cabin and it lies in a wood away from the main roads.
Security patrols operate in the woods and round the rough country roads
leading in and out of the forest.  The Bear is patronized only by
privileged members of the Party hierarchy and the senior officers in the
KGB.  It is not frequented by the artists or scientists, who have a
special venue of their own, some thirty miles away in the heart of
another forest.  The dachas of the elite are within the same fifty-mile
radius, divided into compounds.  The members of the Politburo have
luxurious country dachas all closed off into one select area; the
Chairman of the Praesidium lives in a mansion in the woods, strongly
guarded and secluded from public gaze.  He can be approached by his
intimates in the Politburo, but his privacy is as absolute as that of
the Tsars. The invitation to Irina Sasanova was delivered to the
University and the messenger waited for her reply.  It came during her
break for lunch, when she was sitting on her own as usual, trying to eat
the unappetizing food.  When she was called out and given the envelope,
she started to tremble and could hardly open it.  The messenger, a KGB
private in civilian clothes, stared woodenly ahead of him.  He was
accustomed to frightened people.  The note inside was in Volkov's own
hand.

"I would like to talk to you about your mother.  Come to dinner with me
this evening.  Tell my driver and he will collect you after classes.
Volkov.

P.S.  Wear something pretty; we are going to a special place."  She
folded the note and took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

"Thank Comrade General Volkov," she said.

"I'll be very happy to accept." She hurried back to the flat as soon as
she was free.

"Wear something pretty.  We're going to a special place."  For a moment
she wondered if that last line were not a vicious joke, and the special
place might have a horrible significance.  She had heard her father say
that Antonyii Volkov had sadistic tastes.  She felt faint with terror at
the idea. Then she calmed herself and reasoned that the note meant what
it said. He had been very friendly to her when she came to his office.
Irina was not a fool, although she was shy.  She knew instinctively when
a man was being more than friendly.  She'd seen her father's dreaded
chief smiling at her and glancing at her legs.  She had thrust the
unpleasant thought aside; now it returned and she considered it. She
shuddered.  Then she began to look through her wardrobe to find
something suitable. The same man came to the flat at precisely seven in
the evening.  He wore the green and red flashes of the military arm of
the KGB.  She wondered whether Volkov would be in the car, but she was
alone in the rear.  The evening was delightfully warm and she gazed out
of the window at the countryside as they left Moscow behind.  The
summers were hot and dry, but the green forests stretched invitingly
across the rosy skyline: there was a light peculiar to the Russian
summer, soft-hued and misty, like a water colour She felt moved by her
country's beauty.  Her parents used to talk about it with their friend
Jacob Belezky. She recoiled from the thought of him, but his words came
back to her, overheard one night when they were all_ arguing and
drinking, and she was reading in her room.

"Russia survived the Tsars.  She survived the German invasion.  Brezhnev
and Kosygin and the KGB may rape the Russian people, take away our human
rights, persecute and punish us, but Russia will bury them as she's
buried every tyranny in the end.  " And then her father, warning him,
pleading with him to be careful.  And not succeeding.  She remembered
feeling so frightened she put her hands over her ears and stared at her
book so as not to hear any more. Memenev had died in the psychiatric
hospital.  The tragic sequence was her father's disappearance, the
months of fear and isolation and then her mother's arrest.  She began to
cry when she thought of her mother, and wiped the tears away quickly,
looking anxiously into her mirror to see if her eyes were red. Volkov
might be able to help her mother.  Not might, could, if he could be
persuaded.  All she had to do was tell him about Poliakov and the
message from her father.  He would exchange one woman for a university
tutor who was in contact with the defector in the West.  And not just
the tutor but all the others who formed links in the chain leading to
her father.  They turned off the main road into the minor road that ran
through the forest; the car was checked by two guards who stepped out,
and then immediately waved on.  It came to a halt outside the one storey
building built of logs; lights beamed through the windows, there was a
tinkle of music in the air.  She got out, straightened her skirt and
tucked her bag under her.  arm.  She walked up the short flight of steps
and went inside.

"Now," Volkov smiled, 'what do you think of this place?  Isn't it nice?
" Irina couldn't disagree.

"It's wonderful," she said. It was decorated in a rich style which was
quite new to her.  Red plush seats and gilded mirrors, coloured glass
lamps on every table, and fresh flowers.

A man dressed in old-fashioned peasant costume wandered through playing
a balalaika.  That was the music she had heard.  The exterior had seemed
simple, even rough.  Inside, it was so luxurious that she couldn't help
looking round at everything.  The tables were full; men were dining with
welldressed women, their clothes brought from the special shops reserved
for the KGB, where goods from the West were stocked exclusively for the
elite. The food was excellent.

"It's so kind of you to bring me here, Comrade Volkov," she said. He
smiled again.  He looked less daunting in casual clothes, a little
younger.

"It's not kind at all," he said.

"You're a charming girl, my dear.  I'm pleasing myself as much as you.
Besides..."  He poured wine into her glass and filled his own.  She had
drunk very little in spite of his prompting.

"Besides," he went on, 'you've had a miserable time this last year,
haven't you?  " She nodded, not knowing what to say.

"And all through no fault of yours, that's what is so unfair about these
family situations.  I haven't mentioned Fedya Pavlovna because I didn't
want to spoil your evening." She glanced up at him, nakedly afraid.

"What's happened to her?  Oh, please, Comrade, tell me."

"Now, my dear, calm yourself.  Nothing has happened to your mother.
Fortunately for her, she is under my protection.  So she is quite
unharmed.  "

"Oh, thank you, thank you," she whispered.  She blinked away tears.

"Where is she?  Can you tell me?"

"Of course I can," he said gently.

"She's still in the Lubyanka. Waiting for a decision to be made.  My
decision, as it happens.  " He saw the anguish in the girl's face, and
felt a tremor of excitement. She was very fresh and young.

"Please," she said, 'don't punish her.  Whatever she did, it wasn't
meant. She's not a clever person, Comrade Volkov; she wouldn't mean to
commit a crime.  " He frowned, pretending to be stern.

"But she did commit one," he said.

"She told a deliberate lie.  She lied about your father's health.  As a
result he was allowed to go abroad, and we know the result.  He killed
himself.  I find it very hard to forgive her.  Your father was not just
one of my colleagues, you know.  He was my friend.  " She gazed into his
eyes, fixed by them as if she were a rabbit frozen by the stare of a
stoat; she accepted the lies with her own eyes, blinking and submissive.
Her father had never been a friend.  Her mother hadn't lied about
anything except a corpse which Volkov knew was a fake.  If he got the
slightest whiff of insincerity from her, her mother was lost. And her
mother was being put forward as part of a bargain not yet explained. But
a major part of it, she knew, consisted of herself.  She lowered her
head, and fumbled in her bag for a handkerchief.  Volkov watched her
with satisfaction. The rabbit simile had occurred to him, and it suited
her.  Pink and white, with the pretty blue eyes and hair like ripe
wheat.  A soft, yielding little rabbit. He reached over and laid his
hand on her bare arm.

"Don't cry," he murmured.

"I'm not a hard-hearted man.  You'll find that out.  I'll get you a
little Polish brandy;

that'll make you feel better.  " A waiter appeared, and he gave the
order. The glasses were brought immediately.  There was no delay, no
sullen service in the Bear.  That was the lot of the tourists and the
ordinary Russians who tried eating in Moscow restaurants or hotels.
Volkov let her sip the brandy.  He lit a cigarette.

"You want to help her, don't you?"

"Yes," she said slowly.

"I'll do anything."

"She spoke very well of you," he said thoughtfully.

"She was very anxious about your reaction to what she'd done.  She said
you were a devoted Party member.  You are, aren't you, Irina?"

"Yes," she said again.

"Good.  I didn't need to ask.  We know these things."  He touched her
arm again, and this time he stroked it.

"When we've finished our brandy we'll go for a little drive.  I'll show
you my dacha.  It's not far from here.  You don't mind getting back a
little late, do you?"

"No, not at all, Comrade Volkov."  She gave him quite a bright smile.

"Not Comrade," he said.

"Antonyii - when we're alone." He didn't touch her in the car.  The
journey took just over twenty minutes.

A security man was on duty outside the dacha.  The moon was up and she
could see it was a single-storey white-painted bungalow, surrounded by
bushes and screened by a belt of pine trees.  It was much larger and its
garden area much bigger than their old dacha.  That had been taken away
as soon as her father went missing.  He led her inside and the room was
well-lit and furnished with the latest Swedish sofas and chairs.  A
picture above the fireplace wouldn't have found favour with the Academy
of Soviet Art.  The signature below it was Chagall. Volkov had a taste
for decadent art.  He came towards her and took her in his arms.

"You're a very pretty girl," he murmured.

"I like you, Irina.  Do you like me?" Rather to his disappointment there
was no fear in her face when she answered! "Yes, I do like you,
Antonyii." He began to kiss her, and without even being asked she
unhooked the back of her dress and pulled it off.  Not quite such a
rabbit after all, he thought as he put her on the sofa.  Frightened at
first, but quite steely when she'd made up her mind.  A little more of a
challenge than expected.  She might last longer than they usually did.
He was surprised to find that she was a virgin. At 4.  15 on the
Thursday afternoon, during office hours in the trade section of the
British Embassy in Moscow, Michael Barker collapsed at his desk.  He was
a junior trade secretary who had been in his post just over a year.  He
complained of chest pains and pain down the left arm;

the Embassy doctor was called, and amid a lot of flurry and telephone
calls to the Head of Chancery, it was announced that Michael Barker had
suffered a minor coronary.  He was taken to his quarters, a nurse
installed, and arrangements made for him to be flown home as soon as
possible for rest and treatment.  The Ambassador dropped in to visit him
in bed, and commiserated; the Embassy doctor took a second ECG and
pronounced him well enough to fly home. The Soviet authorities were
notified, and after a lapse of forty-eight hours, during which time
Barker was put on the BA flight to London with a nurse in attendance,
the Soviet Foreign Ministry was informed that his place on the staff
would be taken by a Mr. Jeremy Spencer-Barr.  Mr. Spencer-Barr's
credentials were duly checked up and found to be impeccable.  He was on
the Foreign Office list and had been employed in trade for the past two
years since leaving the United States after a course at Harvard Business
School. His background was copybook upper-class; relatives and sponsors
in the Establishment.  His name was put on file.  The following day
Elizabeth Cole was relieved of her post and sent back to London.  An
Embassy leak let it be know that she was said to be in touch with
dissidents.  The political wing of the KGB, which was integrated with
the military wing, raked back over their records of Elizabeth Cole, and
discovered something sinister in her weekly trips to Gum and the same
cafe.  Angry directives were issued to watch every move made by whoever
replaced her.

Jeremy Spencer-Barr stepped off the plane at Sheremetyevo airport just a
week after Michael Barker began enjoying an unexpected holiday in
Portugal, courtesy of the Foreign Office.  He had never felt better in
his life, and never connected the sudden attack of pain and dizziness in
Moscow with the cup of tea he had been given by one of the secretaries.
Spencer-Barr was met at the airport by an Embassy car and a junior trade
official.  His arrival was noted by the Soviet authorities.  Their
interest in him was perfunctory because the replacement for Elizabeth
Cole came on the same flight and shared his car.  She was a particularly
good-looking girl, and her photograph, along with Jeremy's, was taken
under cover in the arrivals hall.  As the car turned into the commercial
section of the British Embassy on Kutuzovsky Prospekt, Jeremy looked out
of the window at his new, unfamiliar surroundings and mentally prepared
himself to make a good impression on the Head of Chancery, the man for
whom he would ostensibly be working. Jeremy always took great pains to
impress his superiors, and he was determined to make the most of the
Moscow assignment as a step up in his career. Humphrey Grant took off
his jacket and lowered himself into an armchair. He stretched wearily,
and sighed.  It was a contented sound;

he glanced across at John Kidson.  Each man had a whisky and soda beside
him; there was an hour before dinner, and they had finished their
session with Sasanov.  It was the end of the first seven days, and
already the results were startling.

"Well," said Grant, "I can do with a drink tonight.  And I think we've
earned one."

"We have indeed," Kidson said.

"He seems to unroll it like a tape.

I've never come across a more detailed memory.  "

"Photographic," Grant agreed.

"The more we ask, the quicker he gives the answers and more besides.
It's as if some kind of mental evacuation is taking place."

"Emotional too."  Kidson drank some of his whisky.

"He's very wound up. He's made his decision and there's part of him that
wants to get it over. And to make it final by holding nothing back. Once
or twice I wondered whether it wasn't coming too easily.  " Grant
glanced up sharply.

"What do you mean?"

"You remember how long it took to get real information out of Perekov?
Apart from the preliminary softening up that was months, even longer
than Sasanov.  And then when he came down here it was like pulling teeth
for the first few weeks.  Until he became acclimatized to saying things
he'd been conditioned never to talk about.  It's a painful process,
undoing the psychological knots that have been tied up all your life.
Treason isn't easy, and whatever these jokers tell you, to them it's
still treason and the West is still the enemy.  They have to turn
themselves inside out before they co-operate properly.  "

"And you don't think Sasanov's done that?"  Grant's voice was sharp.

"You're not suggesting he's telling us a prepared scenario? For Christ's
sake!  " He sat bolt upright and put his drink down.  He was seldom if
ever heard to swear.

"I'm not suggesting anything," Kidson said.

"I'm just speculating clearing my own mind, that's all.  I find him a
puzzle.

I find his attitude uncanny; that sounds a silly word to use, but it
fits somehow.  He's doing something he hates doing, and he seems to be
taking a kind of perverse pleasure in it.  I think he's under some very
strong pressure."

"What kind of pressure?"

"I don't know," Kidson said.

"Whatever it is, it's tearing him to pieces."

"Everything he's told us has been checked and so far it's right," Grant
muttered.

"I'm going to see the Chief tomorrow morning and I'd like a report from
you, setting out what you've told me."

"Certainly," Kidson said.

"I'll put it together this evening.  Don't get alarmed, Humphrey; you
know me, I'm always looking into corners. We've got someone so important
in this chap that we can't afford to be complaisant.  Personally I think
he's straight, and that side worries me as much as the other
possibility.  We need to settle him down; we need to have him on our
side and co-operating every step of the road after we've collated all
the information.  "

"That's why we've sent a team into Russia," Grant argued.

"He knows that.  He knows we're going to try and get his daughter out
and bring her to him.  That ought to provide him with his anchor."

"It should do, yes.  Funnily enough, the only outside question he's
asked me since we came here was about Davina Graham.  Anyway I'll type
up my opinion and you can discuss it with the Chief, Finish your drink,
Humphrey.  I could do with dinner; these long sessions make me hungry."

"Thanks to you," Grant said sourly, "I've lost my appetite." Tames White
had the map of the Middle East set up on the office wall, replacing the
large-scale one of Europe which normally hung there.  He and Grant stood
in front of it.  For nearly three days, they had been studying the
information supplied by Sasanov, going over it point by point,
cross-checking as much as possible with their own sources of
information.  At one stage White had said, "Good God he can't be working
for them," and then gone on reading.

"So the picture is beginning to emerge," he said to Grant.

"Afghanistan is one vast military base, ICBM sites aimed at China;

nuclear strike forces in easy reach of every major city in India and
Pakistan.  We've had enough information to suspect it was pretty bad,
but not as bad as this.  Iran is still anybody's guess.  President Rezai
is holding it together by the skin of his teeth; Communist-aligned
Fedayeen and Moslem revolutionaries; Kurds, Baluchis, Bakhtiari, all
trying to fly at each other's throats.  Of course, the Russians won't
need to do anything, it'll happen by itself.  Chaos followed eventually
by a "socialist" government with Moscow alignment.  This is what worries
me.  " He pointed with a ruler at the cluster of the United Arab
Emirates, Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Oman and Saudi Arabia.

"If Sasanov's right, they've made a massive penetration in the area.
It's a time-bomb, ready to blow the Western oil sky high.  Which will
mean American armed intervention.  I think I shall have to go and see
the Prime Minister and make a report on this.  We shall have to bring in
the Americans sooner rather than later.  " He turned away and went back
to his desk.  His expression was grim.

"Do you really believe that they've got these people in their pay?"  He
had a thick folder in front of him, containing a resume of Sasanov's
information. Kidson's report was beside it.

"The King's favourite son...  and this man...  Good God, he's been a
friend to the West for twenty years!  I can accept some of the others;
if you look at Dubai it's not surprising.  It's a pure power-struggle
between their man and the ruling family.  "

"All this presupposes that he's telling the truth," Grant said.

"You've read Kidson's report he's got some doubt nagging away at him.
And he's not easy to fool." James White said, "He's the best there is,
at this stage.  I think he's worried because the normal pattern is
different in this case.  Sasanov isn't behaving according to the rules
for a top-placed Soviet defector. But so long as this is proved right,
and so far we've got no reason to dispute it, that's all that matters."

"According to Sasanov, this is just surface stuff," Grant said.

"He hasn't even started on motives and methods yet;

in-depth studies are going to take months, in conjunction with our own
experts and the Americans.  What shall I tell Kidson?  "

"Tell him to get everything out of him.  And not to worry about the
authenticity, that's our problem.  Just keep Sas anov talking and
talking.

I'll drop down in a week and see you all.  But I've got to take this to
the top.  I think she'll be rather pleased with the Department, don't
you, Humphrey?" Grant twitched his mouth into a tight smile.

"I think so, Chief."

"Your German's pretty good," Peter Harrington said.

"Where on earth did you learn a Bavarian accent?" They were strolling up
the Kurfurstendam, part of a slow-moving crowd of shoppers and
sightseers.

"I spent six months in Munich," Davina said.

"Being finished, or rather finished off.  I loathed it."

"Why?  Munich's a lovely place the people are quite jolly too."

"Not in the school I went to," she retorted.

"It was dreadfully snobbish, with Baroness this and Countess the other,
and the few English girls were the worst.  We met selected young men
from nice families, and trailed round the art galleries and museums, and
looked at the ruins left by Allied bombing it was all right if you were
pretty and extrovert.  I wasn't.  I just learned German, that's all.  My
parents were far more disappointed that I wasn't a social success;

they didn't seem to notice that I was almost bilingual in six months.  "

"I get the feeling," Peter said, 'that you've quite a bit of resentment
against your family.  You weren't the favourite, I take it?  " She
laughed.

"Favourite?  God that's a joke.  My brother was killed in a plane crash
he was training for the Fleet Air Arm; and that left my beautiful
sister, Charlotte, and ugly old me.  No, I certainly wasn't the
favourite child.  "

"Aren't they proud of you now?"  he asked her.  They were I walking the
wide central thoroughfare; he stopped to look | in one of the elegant
shops. There was a window display | of very expensive handbags, and silk
scarves.  | "They don't know anything about my job," she answered.  |
"That's nice, that maroon bag with the scarf it must be | Hermes, they
do the most gorgeous designs.  I bet it costs I a fortune."  3 "What do
they think you do then?" Harrington asked.  | They began to walk on.  1
"They think I'm personal assistant to the Chief," she said.  j "He and
my father have known each other for years.  My mother tries to be
tactful and asks how I'm getting on, 1 rather like talking to someone
about school.

"How's the work going" - you know the sort of thing and then drops 1
hints about career women ending up lonely old maids. She means well but
I find it embarrassing.  "

"I don't know," he said thoughtfully.

"You're a damned attractive woman.  I've told you so before, and I mean
it. Especially in the last year, you take a lot of trouble with
yourself. Don't you want to get married?  You could pick and choose, you
know." She smiled; an ironic smile followed by an impatient shake of the
head.

"I had one try," she said.

"I got myself a nice suitable man, and he ran off with my sister and
married her instead."

"Charming," Peter Harrington said.

"She must be a real blossom."

"Oh, don't make any mistake," Davina said.

"If you met her you'd be bowled over, just like everyone else.  There's
never been a man who didn't fall head over heels as soon as he saw her
except one." She quickened the pace.  Harrington looked at her; there
was a slight curve on her mouth, almost a smile.

"And who was that?" She gave him a mischievous sideways glance.

"Ivan the Terrible," she said.

"He preferred me.  Let's go in and have a cold drink; I'm thirsty."

"There's a cafe there," Harrington steered her towards it.  'lust tell
me, how in hell did Ivan ever meet your sister?  "

"Because I took him home for the weekend," she said liehtly.

"They thought he was a Pole, from the Embassy.  It was quite an
interesting experiment.  It doesn't matter telling you about it now.  I
got permission from the Chief, and we spent the weekend at home.  That's
when I went to bed with him for the first time.  And there was my sister
waiting for him to knock on her door.  It was quite funny, looking
back..." They sat at a table on the pavement.  A waitress came over for
their order.

"Two beers, please."  Harrington offered her a cigarette.

"You know I feel rather jealous?"

"Don't be silly," Davina said gently.

"You don't feel anything of the sort.  You can't help chatting me up,
Peter, just to keep in practice. Not that I mind; but don't expect me to
take any notice, will you?  "

"That's up to you," he said. The cunning bastard, he thought to himself.
He knew how to get his hooks into her.

"He preferred me."  No wonder she'd fallen in love with him.  But he
said nothing; they drank the cold beer and watched the crowds pass by on
that lovely summer day.  There was a distinctive atmosphere about West
Berlin; there was gaiety and life, and exhilaration that was infectious.
And through the heart of the city ran the obscene Wall, with its watch
towers and barbed wire and the armed Vopos patrolling, their machine
pistols ready.  And behind that wall there lived the luckless members of
the German Democratic Republic. They were due to cross into the East the
following morning. Harrington had booked seats on the morning bus that
went through Checkpoint Charlie; they held Federal Republic passports in
the names of Dieter and Helga Jaeger.  An elderly aunt in the Eastern
Zone; duly provided by the Chief's East German network, would be waiting
on the other side of the checkpoint when they disembarked.  Davina had
seen photograph of her, dressed in the clothes she would be wearing. She
had memorized it at the language centre. On the way back to their hotel,
Harrington stopped at the bag shop.

"Let's pop inside and ask how much that is," he suggested. She started
to refuse but he had gone in and she had to follow.  He was looking at
the maroon leather bag and scarf she had admired.

"Peter," she whispered urgently.

"Don't be silly I can't take a thing like that with me into the East.
It's obviously made here!"

"It's a two-way traffic," he said.

"You could have bought it on a visit to the West.  Anyway you like it,
and I want to give you a present.  So be a good girl and shut up!"  He
paid, and Davina winced at the price.

"Don't wrap up the scarf," he told the salesgirl.

"My wife will wear it."

"You're crazy," she said, when they were outside.

"But it's lovely. Thank you very much it was a sweet thing to do.  "

"Just a token of my esteem," he grinned.

"Those colours suit you.  Come on, we're going to celebrate our last
night of freedom with a bloody good dinner and a bottle of wine.  I
might even join you in a glass."

"I think you might," she told him.  This time she took his arm and held
it until they reached the door of their hotel. They had dinner in the
new Adion Restaurant; the rich German food was accompanied by a superb
Rhenish wine.  Peter Harrington kept up a continuous line of jokes and
nonsense.  Neither of them had spoken a word of English since they
arrived in Berlin.  He kept his promise and only sampled the wine; she
felt quite light-headed when they came out into the warm night air and
he found a taxi to take them back to the hotel.  They had a double room
with twin beds.  There had been no awkwardness the previous night;
Davina was too keyed up to notice who went to the bathroom first to
change, or to respond when Harrington tried a feeble joke about living
the part. That night was different; the wine had gone to her head, she
felt relaxed and affectionate towards him.  The expensive bag was on the
chest of drawers, the Hermes scarf neatly folded.  It was generous of
him to buy her a present like that.  She wasn't used to being given
things.  She undressed first, brushing her teeth with extra care, and
making a silly face at herself in the bathroom mirror.

"Good evening Frau Jaeger.  That's a new white moustache you're
wearing." She began to giggle. He was in his dressing-gown when she came
out.

"What were you laughing about?"

"Oh, nothing.  Just something ridiculous.  That wine has gone right to
my head.  I'm going to have a hangover tomorrow morning."

"Never mind," he said.

"It'll help you to look like an East German." He pulled the bedclothes
down for her.

"Get in then.  Kiss goodnight?" When he tried to open her mouth she
pushed him away.

"No, Peter.  I'm sorry." He didn't argue or persist.  He let her go at
once.

"Pity," he said gently.

"Pity that Russian got there first.  I'm getting rather fond of you, you
know.  Sleep well." He switched out the light.  She felt herself
drifting into sleep.  Her dreams were fragmented, trouble-filled.  She
woke, heart beating too fast, gripped by anxiety from a nightmare she
couldn't remember.  East Berlin.  Then Russia.  The day spent with Peter
Harrington had been a flight from reality, pretending to be tourists,
treating themselves, like truants sneaking a day out of school.  The new
day was very real indeed, and lying awake in the darkness, with two more
hours before daybreak, Davina Graham began to be afraid. Jeremy
Spencer-Barr was in the bug-proofed room outside the Head of Chancery's
office.  Elizabeth Cole's superior officer was with him.

"We've arranged a new rendezvous for the Daughter's contact," he said.

"It's the biggest bookshop in Moscow, on Red Square.  He goes there once
a fortnight to collect the books he's ordered.  His next trip is on
Thursday. He's been following this line independently of meeting Lizzie
Cole.  It doesn't do to start new habits around here.  You go to the
same bookshop at three o'clock sharp on Thurs day and order a copy of
Crime and Punishment in the English translation.  Say you want to
translate it back into Russian. Your contact will be by the counter and
he'll recognize you when he hears the book mentioned.  They don't have a
copy in stock, because we've checked.  He will suggest you apply to the
University for a loan of one of their copies. That tells you who he is.
He'll wander off and you'll start looking through the shelves.  When
you're both out of sight, he'll make his report.  All clear?"

"Perfectly clear, thank you.  " Jeremy said.

"How do I get to Red Square? Public transport?  "

"No, you walk," was the answer.

"Start taking walks round the city, starting today.  Visit the Kremlin
Museum.  It's worth seeing anyway. Wander round to Red Square and
sightsee Lenin's tomb, the Tsar Bell, St. Basil's Church.  You've got a
secretary, take her with you.  Let her show you round.  You'll be
watched, naturally, so pretend to be interested, even if you're not.  "
Spencer-Barr looked surprised.

"I'm looking forward to it," he said.

"I think Moscow's a fascinating place."  He seemed unaware of the
condescension in his tone.  The older man gave him a sharp look.

"Then why don't you go into Lenin's tomb," he said.

"It'll only take four hours in the queue."  He saw the young man smile,
as if he'd said something amusing.  He formed an instant dislike of him.

"I don't think I need to go that far.  " Jeremy said.

"I'll go to the bookshop on Thursday; three o'clock by the foreign
translations section.  Do I know what this contact looks like?"

"I've never seen him," was the answer.

"But he's our only contact with the Daughter.  He's a university
lecturer, a young don in our parlance.  Member of a group of dissidents,
an oflshoot of the Helsinki group monitoring human rights violations.
All those poor devils are either dead or locked away.  These people are
anonymous;

they don't speak out because there's no shred of tolerance for them and
they'd just be arrested.  So they work underground, collaborating with
the Western embassies, principally ours and the Americans', supplying
information about arrests and acts of illegal oppression. Sometimes more
than that.  You can appreciate that their actions place them in more
danger even than people like Scherensky and Belezky, If they're caught,
they'll be accused of spying.  And that means the firing squad.  "

"Well, they are spying, aren't they?"  Spencer-Barr said.

"Passing information to us and the Americans.  What exactly is this
man's relationship to the Daughter?  Is she sympathetic to the dissident
movement?"

"Sympathetic to her mother, who's in the Lubyanka," he said.

"And scared stiff she'll end up there herself.  That was Lizzie's last
report from Daniel.  That's his code name, as you know.  In the Lion's
Den; in more ways than one.  All our dissident informants have the code
names of the Prophets.  This one seemed particularly apt when we chose
it.  That's the name he'll use to you."

"Thank you very much," Jeremy said formally.

"I've got all that firmly fixed.  I'll start my tour of the city
straight away.  Does my secretary have any idea that I'm more than
Michael Barker's replacement?"

"None at all.  So play it dead serious with her.  She's quite a nice
girl, so it shouldn't be too much of a bore."  Jeremy Spencer-Barr gave
him a direct look from his humourless blue eyes.

"Nothing about my work will ever be a bore to me," he said. The older
man had been in the Intelligence Service since his army days. He had
developed a natural cynicism about enthusiastic youths. He also had a
shrewd instinct for the rare species of man who crops up in the secret
world at odd intervals. He committed his thoughts to tape, when he was
alone.  These in turn would be typed and filed for dispatch to London.
Ambitious, sharp, over-confident. He gave his opinion of the new
recruit.  And then he added the last words, which his Chief and Humphrey
Grant would understand.  "Would undertake any assignment'. That meant
that the polished young gentleman was the type who could be told to kill
and wouldn't hesitate.  He switched off the tape and took it back to his
desk and locked it away. Jeremy Spencer-Barr set off for his tour of
Moscow with an excited Embassy secretary who thought him terribly
good-looking and felt guiltily pleased about Michael Barker's heart
attack.

"Oh, it's bliss to be home," Charley said.  She stretched her arms above
her head, and turned her beautiful face up to the warm afternoon
sunshine.  Her father and mother smiled happily at each other.  She was
a delightful companion to them, always cheerful and full of amusing
anecdotes about her life in London.  Just to look at her lifted their
spirits.  She was one of those rare women who always looked glamorous;

she was as lovely without make-up, in shirt and trousers, as she was
when dressed for a party.

"The garden is looking marvelous," she said to her mother.

"There's always such a lovely smell round this terrace."

"That's the Lilium Regale," Mrs. Graham said.

"They don't last very long but they have a heavenly scent.  Be careful
of the sun, darling, it gets very hot here.  You don't want to burn."

"I don't want to get freckly," Charley answered.

"That's the pest of red hair, you get covered in freckles like a brown
egg. Don't worry, I put on some cream first.  I should go back to London
with a lovely light tan.  Not that I feel like going back."

"Why don't you stay then?"  Captain Graham suggested.

"You could spend a few days relaxing here.  It'd do you good, Charley. I
think you lead too hectic a life up in London on your own.  "

"It hasn't been that hectic," she admitted.

"I've been going out a lot, but there's nobody interesting around."  She
opened her eyes and sat up.

"In fact, the one man who takes me out regularly spends a lot of the
time asking me questions about Davina."

"Really?"  Her father was surprised.

"Who is he and why should he take you out to ask about her?"

"That's what's been bothering me," Charley said.

"He's called Jeremy Spencer-Barr.  He works in the Defence Ministry and
he says he's met Davina once or twice.  I didn't take any notice at
first, I thought it was a bit boring, but he kept on.  Every time we
went out.  You remember that Pole she brought down well, he was asking
questions about him, too."

"What sort of questions?"  her mother asked.

"About their relationship," Charley answered.

"I was rather silly to mention it in the first place, in fact I played
it up a bit.  Actually it was the first time I met him, at the cocktail
party after I left here that weekend.  Then he took me out to dinner,
and he asked a lot of questions about Davy, and the Pole.  I got rather
fed up with it.  I thought at the time, Lord, what's so interesting
about them?  Then he said something that worried me afterwards.  He
said," She got a job I wanted.  If they'd known she was having an affair
she wouldn't have got it.  That sort of thing doesn't go down well.  " I
was quite worried in case he was going to get her into trouble because
of something I'd said.  I didn't expect to hear from him again because
he was going to America; I didn't like him very much actually.  Then he
rang up out of the blue and said his plans had changed.

"Next time I saw him," Charley went on, 'he started the questions again.
Just slipped in here and there.  Had I seen Davy lately hadn't she
mentioned the Pole before bringing him that weekend couldn't I remember
his name or what he did at the Embassy?  It seemed so odd; I suppose I
noticed it because he wasn't the least interested in me.  I felt he was
taking me out so he could find out about Davina and this man.  " Her
father frowned.

"It certainly sounds like it," he admitted.

"What was this job he talked about I don't understand that at all.  What
is his position? After all, Davina's a personal assistant; he can't have
wanted that!  " Charley paused; both parents were looking at her
anxiously.

"There's something else," she said.

"Probably ridiculous."

"What was it, Charley," her mother prompted.

"Tell us."

"Oh, you probably don't even remember.  There was a Russian who
disappeared over here last year.  They found his body by Beachy Head.  A
couple of months ago or more."

"I remember," her mother said suddenly.

"It was on the news and there was a lot of fuss in the papers."

"There was a photograph," Charley said.

"A blown-up thing, very grainy, taken of this Russian when he arrived at
Heathrow.  Did you see it, mother?" Mrs.  Graham shook her head.

"I don't think so; I don't remember it."

"I expect you'll think I'm absolutely mad, but I thought it looked like
Davy's Pole."

"Good God," Captain Graham exclaimed.

"I remember that picture, and I remember thinking the same thing.  What
a coincidence." His wife got up.

"I keep the old newspapers," she said quietly.

"I'll see if I can find it."  She went inside the house.

"It's nonsense, of course," Captain Graham said after a pause, 'but we
might as well look together if your mother can find it.  Here she is.
Any luck, Betty?  "

"Yes, it's The Times, May 9th." She spread the paper out on the garden
table.  The three of them looked at it.

"That's the picture I saw," he said. Charley stared down at it.

"It's a better reproduction than the one in my paper.  It does look like
him, doesn't it?" Captain Graham nodded; he was reading the caption and
the news story.

"I think it's turned cold," his wife said.

"Let's go inside.  Bring that with you, dear.  I'll make some tea." In
the quiet drawing-room, golden in the late sunshine, Charley perched on
the arm of her father's chair.  She slipped her arm round him.

"When did you last hear from Davy?"

"Not since that weekend.  She wrote a nice letter to your mother.
Nothing since.  But that's not unusual.  She leads her own life.  In
fact we hadn't been in touch for months till she suddenly rang up and
invited herself down for the weekend.  Betty hasn't heard from her since
the thank-you letter, or she'd have told me.  I don't understand this at
all, Charley. Especially this fellow Spencer-whatever-it-is.  I don't
understand this business about her getting a job, and why he wants to
know about some Pole she brings down for the weekend.  Look, darling,
don't worry about it.  You haven't done her any harm, I'm sure of that.
"

"I just hope not," she said slowly.

"I hurt her badly enough once.  It would be pretty awful if I did it
again.

I know her career means a lot to her.  And thanks to me, Daddy, it's all
she's got."

"You're not to talk like that," he protested.

"Davina's had plenty of chances.  You never meant to hurt anyone."

"That's quite true," she said.

"It never occurred to me Davina wouldn't find anyone else.  I just took
Richard off her, that's all.  I didn't seem able to help it.  And I
never wanted to marry him either. You're right, darling, it was a long
time ago, but I don't want to be the cause of any trouble to her now.
And I don't like Jeremy.  He's goodlooking, he's charming in a way, very
intelligent, and just not nice.  That's all.  " They sat together in
silence for a while.

"Daddy you don't think it's possible..."

"What, Charley?"

"It couldn't have been that other man, could it?  The Russian.  Seeing
it just now, I was sure they were the same.  She couldn't be mixed up in
something, could she?  " Her mother came in with a tray.  She answered
the question before her husband had time.  Her handsome face was grave.

"There's one way to make sure," she said.

"Your father must go up and see James White.  And he must tell him about
this friend of yours, Charley, and his questions.  So far as we know,
Davina's a perfectly ordinary personal secretary and that man she
brought here was a perfectly ordinary Polish diplomat.  But we have got
to make sure, that's all.  Charley, pour out the tea, will you?"

"Yes, Mother." She got up and took charge of the tea tray.  Betty Graham
settled in her chair opposite her husband's.  She seldom took the
initiative; her husband had been the head of the house and the family,
and she had contentedly deferred to him throughout their married life.
But when she did assert herself the effect upon him and her children was
very positive.  She addressed herself to Charley again.

"James has been a friend for many years," she said.

"Your father and I have always understood that he has a confidential job
in the Ministry, although naturally we've never mentioned it.  So far as
we know, Davina is his secretary, and recently promoted to his personal
assistant.  If she's got involved with anything beyond that, then I
shall want to hear James's explanation.  But until we do, Charley dear,
you must promise to say nothing to anyone about her, the man she brought
down here, or even this person Jeremy.  I've been studying that picture
too. The more I look at it, the more it reminds me of her Polish friend.
But the story said the body had been in the sea for several months.  It
was discovered only a few weeks after Davina and he had been to stay. So
it couldn't have been the same person.  "Thank you, darling."  She took
the cup of tea from Charley.

"But it's better to clear the matter up.  I shall telephone Davina this
evening;

I should have done it ages ago, it's very remiss of me to neglect her.
And you can ring James in Kent, dear.  " Captain Graham saw the firm,
but gentle smile and knew that there was no point in arguing.

"That's a good idea.  Now Charley and I are going to play backgammon.

I'll get the board set up.  " There was silence after that, except for
the rattle of the dice, and a muttered damn, half-laughing, from the
Captain as his daughter won the first game.  Mrs. Graham watched them
tolerantly as she sewed. Needlework and gardening were her two passions,
and she embroidered exquisitely.  She was glad to see them together; she
noticed how beautiful her daughter was in profile, and how young still,
pushing the shining red hair away with one hand and teasing her father
for being a bad loser.  And she thought, as she often did in private,
that there was something sad about her favourite child, so gifted with
all the feminine graces, so envied by her own sex.  Sad because the
deeper values of fidelity and unselfishness had eluded her; she believed
that love was all that mattered, without understanding that it meant to
give as much as to receive. Her thoughts turned to her other child, the
self- contained, resentful elder daughter, resolutely plain and on the
shelf, a reproach to her parents and her sister.  Undemonstrative as a
child, she had been difficult to love.  She had been a silent, brooding
adolescent who made adults uncomfortable.  She had grown into the
sensible daughter, nicknamed Davy, until such time as the boy was born;
but still the nickname stuck.  It was inconceivable to connect Davina
with something secretive.  Ridiculous to imagine that there was any
connection between her and the death of a Russian trade delegate.  Or
the vague mystery of James White's true function in the Ministry.  She
didn't try to dismiss the fear that had begun to grow while she listened
to Charley and looked at the photograph of a man who had been alive and
in her house when he was said to have died months before.  She didn't
dismiss anything, because the last time she had felt this sense of
darkening premonition was just before they received the news of their
son's death.

"You'll be glad to hear that our operative in Moscow is in position and
Miss. Graham and her companion are on their way." The Brigadier had
taken Sasanov into the conference room ahead of the others. They had
lunched together with Grant, and the conversation stayed on the most
superficial level.  They talked about the weather, the Brigadier's game
of golf over the weekend; Sasanov listened to an explanation of the game
without hiding his boredom.  He ate in silence, his expression stony,
resisting efforts to draw him out in the game of social niceties the two
Englishmen were playing.  When he was alone with the Russian, James
White made his announcement immediately. Sasanov's head came up and he
tensed; he reminded the Brigadier of a big, powerful animal that had
scented danger.

"What about my daughter?  And my wife?"

"Your daughter is well, and is continuing her studies at university,"
the Brigadier said.

"There is no further news of your wife.  We're still trying to make
contact."

"They will send Fedya to the Gulag," Sasanov said. He began to pace up
and down.

"She won't live long in those conditions.  My wife is a townswoman.
They'll kill her slowly, with hard labour and, too little food.  And the
cold.  " He faced James White.

"You don't know what that word means in this little country.  It's a
cold that freezes the brain, that wakes you in the night in agony.  It
is a form of torture that never stops.  Hunger and weakness and always
that bitter cold eating into the body like a hungry animal.  My wife
will die," he said.

"We will get her exchanged," James White said.

"First, we want to bring your daughter over.  And that seems very
hopeful." Sasanov swung on him.

"You have no one to exchange for my wife!"  he shouted.

"You haven't an agent of enough importance.  The ones you have in prison
here are all expendable.  We wouldn't offer anything to have them back!"

"Why don't we sit down," James White said.

"We have a few minutes in hand before the session starts.  Calm
yourself, Colonel.  I've been thinking hard about this question of
exchange and your wife.  You're right, of course.  We haven't got a
Lonsdale or a Kroger.  And the Americans certainly won't give us one of
their bargaining-counters to help release her.  We've been insisting on
keeping you to ourselves, you know.  That was part of our bargain: you
stay here."

"But you are sharing my information," Sasanov protested.

"Yes, sharing, but there's no co-operation in debriefing you.  The
Americans don't like that.  But I keep my word, Colonel." Sasanov
hunched forward, his head lowered; the animal simile recurred to James
White.

"Vina is out there too," Sasanov said.

"And there is one of our agents in place here."

"What makes you think that?"  The question was asked almost casually.

"Because I'm hot a fool," Sasanov snarled at him.

"I know how my own organization works; I've known there was a KGB
penetration since the fire at Halldale.  And you haven't found him, have
you?"

"Not yet," the Brigadier admitted.

"But we will."

"How?"  Sasanov demanded.

"Months of investigating, taking statements, cross-examining the
suspects, letting them go again, waiting for absolute proof- I know your
methods, Brigadier, and they won't do for this!  By the time you are
ready to charge the spy he'll have made his escape, like Philby and the
others. That's why you must let me look for him." He took a cigarette
out of the box on the table and then put it back in disgust.

"I can't smoke those things.  Vina always got me Russian cigarettes."

"Kidson should have done the same," the Brigadier said.

"How do you mean...  look for him?" He didn't sound very interested.  He
swung his foot in its highly polished leather shoe and gazed at it for a
moment or two before looking at Sasanov.

"Show me what you've got," the Russian said.

"Let me analyse it.  I haven't got time to waste, Brigadier.  That agent
could mean my wife's release.  Think of the danger to Vina and the
others! Let me work with your investigators and find him."

"I'm afraid we can't interrupt the debriefing," White said.

"I couldn't justify it.  "

"I can interrupt it," Sasanov said flatly.

"I can stop talking!"

"If you do," White answered pleasantly, "I shall cancel the rescue
operation and recall my people from Russia.  Never try to blackmail me,
Colonel.  It makes me very obstinate."

"You don't have to interrupt the sessions with Grant and his experts,"
Sasanov countered.

"Just let me have the in formation your investigators have got on file.
I can go through it myself, alone.  It is to your advantage, as much as
mine.

I want my wife released; you have a team in Russia and a Soviet agent
loose.

I will know better than anyone how to look for him." The Brigadier
examined his shoe again. After a pause he said, "Very well.  We'd be
glad of your assistance.  So long as you maintain your present level of
information with Grant and his people And here they are.  Good
afternoon, gentlemen.  Shall we take our places?" He glanced at the
half-dozen men and smiled in his genial way, as if he were about to
chair a routine board meeting in a company that was making a
satisfactory profit.  He saw Kidson go up to Sasanov and say something
which made the Russian nod in agreement. They disposed themselves around
the big mahogany table.  Grant, the supreme professional co-ordinator;
Kid- son the psychologist; a Soviet foreign affairs expert called
Franks; Holmes from the Department of Trade; Longman from the Ministry
of Defence, with his assistant; and finally the representative of the
Foreign Office, Arthur Warbur- ton, a former Moscow diplomat with a long
record of service within the Eastern bloc. There was a steno typer who
recorded every word spoken.  Grant cleared his throat in his pedantic
way, and tapped a pencil on the tabletop, exactly like a schoolmaster
calling his class to attention.  The Brigadier could see quite clearly
how his brilliant assistant annoyed his colleagues.

"We can recap on yesterday's session," he said.

"By reference to the transcripts.  Everyone has one?  Good.  Study them,
and then perhaps Longman would like to begin."

White watched Sasanov.  He didn't consult the papers in front of him.
They had been translated into Russian to make it easier for him to read
and digest them at speed.  He was closed to the room and everyone in it,
if his expression was an indication.  The rather square face was set,
the eyes hidden by half-lowered lids, the jaw clenched.  He wanted to
root out the KGB operative.  It had occurred to White from the start
that he hadn't once suggested that the man they were looking for was a
home-bred traitor.  He heard Longman from the Ministry of Defence open
the session.  He was a brisk man in his middle forties, a naval captain
seconded to the highly secret section of the Ministry that operated with
SIS.

"If the internal coups you disclosed to us yesterday are successful
inside the WE countries on the Gulf, that will open the Strait of Hormuz
to Soviet naval domination," he said. Sasanov answered slowly in his
very good English.  Dav- ina Graham had achieved that, apart from
anything else.

"The coups are timed to start within six weeks of each other," he said.

"Beginning with the palace revolution in Dubai.  After the ruler's
assassination, power will be seized by the minister." The Brigadier had
read the transcripts the night before.  The plan outlined by the Russian
was simple, yet terribly cunning in its conception.  The ruler of Dubai
was a stern but beloved autocrat, a devout Moslem who lived a
comparatively spartan life in comparison with his sons and his principal
advisers. His death would be the result of travelling by helicopter with
one of his younger sons, a Prince Mohammed, who liked to pilot his
father. The Prince was known to be as wild as a hawk, restless and
power-seeking, secretly resentful of his older brothers.  The plan to
sabotage the helicopter would allow the Minister to accuse the elder
sons of bringing about their father and brother's death, to arrest them
and take power himself. He would have the support of the Army, who
regarded themselves as bound in loyalty to the dead Prince Mohammed.
Western observers would see no peril in the Minister's assumption of
power; he had never been suspected of Soviet leanings. In fact his
liking for luxury and Western ways was known to be catered for by
Britain and the United States. The death of the Sheik of Kuwait would be
caused by | poison, administered by a woman in his harem.  The woman was
a plant, provided by the PLO.  She had been chosen for her remarkable
beauty and skill as a dancer; she had already pleased the Sheik and was
taken with him when he travelled.  His heir was already under the
domination of a favourite with Soviet connections. The Sultan of Oman
would be brought down by an internal revolution;

the military dictatorship would be fronted by extremist Moslems.  The
fall of Saudi Arabia would happen automatically from within.  The
preparations for a rising against the king and the royal family had been
in train for the past four years.  It would begin with a second assault
upon the Grand Mosque in Mecca.  By the time the United States and the
West had interpreted what was happening, the whole bloc to the Persian
Gulf and the Strait of Hormuz would be invested with Soviet
sympathizers, and the seas open to the Red Fleet.

"The result of this," Sasanov went on, 'will be a military confrontation
with the United States.  "

"In other words, a war," Captain Longman interposed.

"A confrontation is not expected to develop into a war at that stage,"
the Russian answered.

"Our experts believe that fighting between the forces of the United
States and ours will be avoided.  With a consequent loss of face for
America.  But that is going too far ahead.  The subjugation by
subversive violence of the oil kingdoms of the Gulf, that is what we
have to study first." Kidson was making notes with his pencil; they
appeared to be notes but were actually line-drawings; odd shapes
connected here and there with sharp angular lines.  Occasionally he
glanced up and watched Sasanov. He was on his feet, addressing the men
seated round the table.  In repose he was a dour man, with a sense of
humour that was quick and unexpected.  But here, surrounded by men of
his own stamp, he projected considerable power. He spoke with fluency,
answered and parried questions with authority. The drawings on Kidson's
pad grew blacker as he underlined some of them. The session was
interrupted for cups of tea and dry army-issue biscuits, as Grant called
them.  Kidson and White left the room separately, ostensibly to go to
the lavatory.  They met in the washroom.

"I see what you mean," the Brigadier said.

"He is certainly fluent. Every name, every date, is to hand.  It is
extraordinary.  "

"And he's dripping with sweat," Kidson remarked slowly.

"Did you notice that?  He's tearing himself inside out, and I don't know
why." He went to the basin and rinsed his hands.

"We'll know soon enough," the Brigadier said.

"He's asked to join the hunt for the Mole.  It'll be very interesting to
see if he finds him. He wants to get his wife released, he says.  And he
makes constant references to Miss. Graham.  Perhaps that's where the
conflict lies. bear that in mind;

he'll find our traitor for us.  "

"And if he doesn't?"  Kidson asked him. The Brigadier turned the
doorknob.

"We could lose those poor devils we sent to Russia," he said. The
village of Zhukova is on a bluff overlooking the Moscow River. Irina
Sasanova had asked Volkov if she might go for a walk that afternoon
while he had work to do.  He had assured her she could go where she
liked; he recommended a particular spot outside the village settlement,
where he said she would have a fine view of the Central Russian plain.
It was very hot, but a delightful breeze blew in from the river; it
cooled her as she walked. It was not the route she and her parents used
to take when they walked their dog on summer weekends.  Sasanov liked
the beaches bounding the slow-moving river; Irina couldn't have borne to
retrace their steps.  Instead she paused on the high point, with the
village to her left; and behind, the modern yellow-brick villas and
traditional pine and clap board houses looking so tranquil enclosed in
their neat gardens and screens of pines.  Moscow was only twenty miles
away, but it was easy to imagine oneself in the heart of the
countryside.  She sat down, pulling at strands of grass, weaving them
between her fingers until they broke. Before her the Central plain
undulated into the distance, suggesting an infinity of rolling land. The
warm breeze stirred her hair; below her the sand beaches glittered in
the sunshine, with figures dotted on them. Bathing and fishing were
forbidden for the ordinary Russian citizens who crossed Ouspenskaya
Bridge and trekked to the public beaches, because the river supplied the
capital with its water.  But on these, the beaches where the privileged
owners of Party dachas picnicked and sunbathed, fishing was allowed by
special licence, and swimming was permitted.  In the larch and birch
forests surrounding Zhukova village and its complexes of dachas, there
were the remains of trenches dug in the last war for the final defence
of Moscow against the German armies. They had never been used; the
invaders had been held and driven back, like the French in 1812, and
then annihilated in the ice and snow. It was the third weekend she had
spent with Antonyii Volkov since the night she became his lover.  As a
reward, he had promised to let her see her mother. She hadn't cried
since that first night, and only then when he was fast asleep, and she
could weep into her pillows.  She drove back to Moscow in his official
car.  She went to classes at the University as usual, and when she came
back to her apartment, the old de hurnqya was waiting for her by the
lift, cringing and asking if there was anything the Comrade Sasanova
wanted. She had already slipped in to tidy the apartment for her.  Irina
walked past her without answering.  Volkov's protection was having very
early results. The next was the restoration of her right to shop at No.
2 Granovsky St. and to buy clothes on the third floor of Gum, reserved
for the Party elite. She had dinner with Volkov during the week and the
car was waiting for her after the final class at the University at the
weekend.  She had no communication with Poliakov until he took the
sociology class the following week.  Sitting on the hill, she clasped
her knees and closed her eyes; she rocked herself slightly, like a child
or a very old woman. It was Sunday, and the next evening Volkov had
arranged for her to visit her mother.  A single tear slipped down her
cheek; she brushed it off and got up.  It was time to go back to the
dacha.  He was taking her to the Bear again, and afterwards he would
want to come back to Zhukova and make love.

"Mother," Irina entreated, "Don't cry- please don't cry." She held Fedya
Sasanova in her arms, and she could feel how thin she had become.  They
had brought Fedya up to an interview room, and then to the surprise of
both women, they had been left alone.  Fedya clung to her daughter and
sobbed.  And as she embraced her, she whispered, "Don't say anything;
they're listening in.  Have you any jiews of your father -just tell me,
quickly." Irina kissed her, "Don't be upset," she said loudly.

"Try to control yourself." And then in a whisper, "I'm waiting; I'll
have news soon." Fedya was wearing a plain clean overall; she had been
allowed a brush and comb and a small mirror.  Her food rations had
improved suddenly. Nobody had questioned her again, but she had been
told to copy out a letter that horrified her.  And copy it again and
again, with variations.  This happened in the middle of the night,
without any explanation.  She gazed at her daughter through the brimming
tears, and tried to smile.

"You look well," she said.

"Are you studying hard?  You mustn't worry about me, I'm being well
looked after.  We can sit down here." There were two upright chairs,
which Irina pulled close facing each other. She sat opposite her mother
and reached out to take her hands in hers.

"I'm working hard," she said.

"Oh, mother, I don't want to reproach you, but why did you tell lies
about my father?  Don't you realize what you did?  You knew he wasn't
well?  Why didn't you alert his superiors?" The hands holding Fedya's
were squeezing hard in warning. Anguish of mind had sharpened her wits.
She hung her head and muttered.

"I know.  I know I did wrong.  Try to forgive me, Irina.  I deserve to
be punished for it.  I just hope the authorities will be merciful.  But
you must forgive me you must.  Now that your father is dead..."  She
gave way to a flood of tears.

"I mustn't cry," Irina reminded herself.

"I mustn't betray myself.  She knows what I'm doing, she understands I
don't mean a word..." Aloud she said, "He'd be alive if you hadn't
failed him.  But what's done is done now.  Listen, Mother, Comrade
Volkov let me see you.  He says you'll be given a chance to rehabilitate
yourself.  You've got to work hard and obey the rules, and you won't be
away for very long. Will you promise me to do that?  " Fedya signalled
to her daughter to get up.  They had been allotted ten minutes and the
time was nearly up.  She embraced her again, and whispered in her ear.

"If you get a message if I say" your little mother" don't believe it. It
will be a lie.  I'll never come home, my darling.  It doesn't matter. Go
the West.  Go to your father.  Tell him I love him. " The door opened
and the guard came into the room.  He put his hand on Fedya's arm.

"Time is up," he said.  He took her away, and she glanced over her
shoulder at Irina and gave a wan smile.

"Goodbye," she said clearly, '.  little daughter.  " It was the
old-fashioned Russian endearment from parent to child. Irina was
escorted out of the building.  Volkov's Volga car slid to the side
entrance.  The driver opened the rear door for her.  She asked to go
home to her apartment.  On the journey back he glanced into the
rear-view mirror, as instructed, but she wasn't crying.  She appeared
quite calm, he reported later.  The de humaya crept up to listen outside
the flat door once she had gone inside, but she heard nothing until the
girl switched on the radio to a programme of popular music. That
evening, without warning, Antonyii Volkov called on her.  He sat down in
the small sitting-room and accepted a glass of vodka.  She was pale and
puny-eyed.  She had kept her tears until she was alone, as he expected
she would.  His opinion of her courage had been right.  She was a brave
and resolute creature, although naive.  He listened while she described
her meeting with her mother, and when she thanked him, he only nodded.
He accepted a second vodka.  Then he told her he was sorry to bring her
bad news.  The head of the Committee for State Security had been
reviewing Fedya Sasanova's case.  In spite of all Volkov's efforts on
her behalf, they had refused to be lenient.  She was being shipped to
the Kolyma labour camps the next day.  The complex at Kolyma were the
worst of all the penal colonies, deep in the Arctic Circle at the
eastern end of Siberia.  No one sent there had ever returned.  He set
his glass down on the little table by his chair, folded his hands and
watched her, waiting.

"Do you have an English translation of Crime and Punishment  The
girl assistant at the foreign books counter shook her head.

"No," she said brusquely.

"We don't have that in English."

"Would it be possible to order one?"  Jeremy Spencer Barr inquired. The
assistant shook her head.  She seemed to enjoy frustrating him.

"I couldn't say," she said, and turned her back on him. Spencer-Barr
felt a touch on his arm.  A young man was beside him.

"Excuse me, but I heard you asking for Crime and Punishment in English."

"Yes, I did," Jeremy said.

"Apparently there isn't one, and nobody can help.  I want to improve my
Russian by retranslating it."

"Well, you could try the library at the University," the man suggested.

"If your purpose is study, they might lend a copy."

"Thank you very much," Jeremy said.

"That's most kind.  I'll go along there." He walked away; the Russian
lingered, asking for books which he had ordered.

"They're not in," the girl snapped.  She had heard him offer help to the
foreigner and she was sullen.

"I sent for them a month ago," Poliakov protested.

"I need them for my students.  Why can't you ever get anything quickly?"

"Because we don't print them, Comrade," she sneered.

"We only sell books.  If you want to complain, write to the printers."
She picked up a sheaf of bills and marched away from the counter.
Poliakov made his way to the shelves at the back of the shop.  He
stopped beside Spencer-Barr, who was reading a book of Russian verse.

"My name is Daniel," he said.  Spencer-Barr didn't look up from the
book.

"What news of the Daughter?" Poliakov took a book from the same shelf
and opened it.

"Worrying news," he said.

"I won't have an opportunity to see her before next Thursday.  Rumours
have been going round the University."

"What kind of rumours?"  Jeremy asked, turning a page.

"Rumours that she's under some Party boss's protection," Poliakov
murmured.

"An official car has picked her up every weekend.  I checked on it
myself. It belongs to An- tony ii Volkov.  KGB." Spencer-Barr closed the
book of poetry and slotted it back into the shelf.

"Meaning she's working for them?  It wouldn't be made public if she
were."

"That's what I tell myself," Poliakov said.

"Volkov was her father's superior.  She could make a deal to help her
mother."

"It'll be interesting to see if she mentions him on Thurs day," Jeremy
said.

"If she doesn't, we'll have to do some thing about her. Otherwise you
and all your people will be arrested.  We can't have that. " He ran a
finger over the row of books and pulled out another one.

"Leave a bus ticket in this book of poetry to let me know you've seen
her.

I'll meet you here at three o'clock on Friday." Poliakov nodded.

"We'd better go now.  You leave first."

"Good luck," Jeremy said.  He replaced the book and walked away.

"Oh, my dear, my dear, how happy I am!" The grey-haired woman embraced
Davina, and then kissed Peter Harrington, enthusing over them loudly.
She wiped her eyes, and said, "Forgive me it's so long since I've seen
Helga.  She's so like my sister..."

They walked away, one on each side of her, their arms linked, watched by
the sullen Vopo border police.  They caught a bus to the Oktoberstrasse,
a residential district built since the war.  The grey buildings housed
flats, their facades grim and uniform; each block had a caretaker who
was in the pay of the State Security Police, the merciless SSD who held
the population of the city in total subjection. The woman introduced
them to the man on duty in the passage below her flat.

"My niece and her husband," she said, "Herr Jaeger and his wife Helga
they've come all the way from Hamburg to visit me!  Isn't that
wonderful?" She hurried them to the lift, and they went up to the fifth
floor.  She opened the green-painted door, and they went into the flat.
It was one room, with a kitchen and a shower.  Three people did in fact
seem like a crowd.

"I've done what I can," she said, 'but you're not encouraged to decorate
too much.  " She stripped off her coat, and she seemed taller and
younger.  The fussiness of manner had disappeared.  She held out her
hand and shook theirs in turn.

"Sit down," she said.

"I'll bring some coffee.  And don't worry; this place is quite clean.  I
have it checked regularly by a friend.  He works in an electronics
company." She had a bold smile; it made her look quite handsome.  She
was the widow of a trade-union official who had been killed at Auschwitz
by the Nazis, after a life spent struggling for socialism and freedom
for his fellow-workers. Frieda was her code name; she had been part of
the Communist underground that operated through the war inside Germany.
She had never been caught, and her cover was so skilful that when the
Gestapo seized her husband, she was considered too unimportant to
warrant more than a brief, brutal questioning.  She came out with a
broken nose and three cracked ribs; but she was free and able to
continue her work.  The Russian liberation of her country had seemed to
Frieda and to thousands of other left-wing Germans the justification for
all they had suffered.  In the smouldering ruins of Berlin they waited
for the Red Army to deliver them.  The deliverance was such that Frieda
nearly lost her mind.  An orgy of looting, rapine, summary executions
and sheer savagery erupted in the city, and engulfed every German
citizen, regardless of age or sex or political creed. Frieda managed to
reach the Soviet command post in her district, hiding in the ruins, and
avoiding the groups of drunken soldiers who were breaking down doors and
dragging people out. The Russian commander' was quite sober.  She was
brought in and pushed to her knees in front of him.  She began to shout
and protest at what was happening; she told him who she was and the name
of her husband, and of the Party membership which had cost him his life.
She was never clear about the details of what happened next; she had a
memory of the Soviet commander taking her to the door and shouting in
Russian.  She was taken to the guardroom, where a dozen grinning men
stripped and raped her, jeering and calling her comrade.  She was found
that night lying in the street outside the post, semiconscious and
naked, bleeding from internal injuries.  Two old men carried her to
shelter in a cellar, and a little group of terrified people cared for
her.  There was a period in hospital, and then discharge.  Where there
had been chaos, now she found order.  The streets were being cleared,
supplies organized; the people cowered under a domination as iron-hard
as the Nazi terror.  This was East Germany under its Communist
liberators; it became the German Democratic Republic under the newly
formed government of Ulbricht.  Frieda got a job in one of the new
factories that were being built; she worked in the kitchens. She never
mentioned her Party membership and she had a set of papers belonging to
someone else, who had died during the first three months of Russian
occupation.  She had a new name, a new identity.  Her mental and
physical health recovered slowly, and with it the spirit that had
survived life in Nazi Germany, and found the will to fight again.  By
the end of 1973 she had enrolled as a British agent, providing cover for
infiltrators and refugees. The bogus Dieter and Helga Jaeger were two
names to her; she knew as little of their real purpose in Berlin as they
knew about her true identity. Suffering had not dimmed the quick
intelligence, or the humour; she assumed her garrulous, elderly skin,
and just as easily threw it off and laughed at herself.

"I call her my Doppelgdnger," she explained.

"Fussy Frieda.  That dirty spy downstairs doesn't have to sneak after
me;

I drive him mad telling him all about my day in the factory and what I
bought for dinner, and how I've got a niece coming to visit me he almost
hides when he sees me coming!  I'm more worried about the couple who
live down the passage.  He's a driver in the Ministry of Agriculture;

she works in the Charite Hospital.  But they have good clothes, a colour
television set.  You don't get luxuries like that from being an honest
worker.  I think he works for the SSD.  That's why I'll slip you two out
before they get back.  Is everything clear?  " She addressed herself to
Peter Harrington.  As soon as they had crossed into East Berlin, Davina
noticed how he changed.  The middle-aged Englishman, with his rakish air
and schoolboy humour, had disappeared as if he had suddenly stepped into
a hole at her side and vanished. Peter Harrington had become Dieter
Jaeger.  He not only dressed like an East German, he walked like one,
with a serious expression on his face, a brisk way of speaking and a
tendency to push in front of her. The change was fascinating to her; she
watched him, while he and Frieda examined the two sets of papers with
their new identities.  He was a true professional; watchful, keen and
very wary.  He passed one set of papers to her.

"Give Frieda your West German passport and visa," he said.

"As soon as we get out of here, you're Gertrude Fleischer, and I'm your
husband Heinz." Davina took the East German passport and opened it.  Her
own face stared at her.  It was quite a shock till she remembered they
had taken several sets of passport photographs at the house in Langham
Place.  Gertrude Fleischer, aged thirty-three, married, height five feet
six inches, hair colour brown, eyes grey, distinguishing marks none;

home address, 331 Hoffburg, Karl Marx Platz, East Berlin 6. Occupation,
secretary.  She shut the narrow blue booklet; there was an envelope
addressed to her, with an official postmark.  She took the enclosure
out.  It was a visa, stamped by the Soviet Embassy, granting entry to
the Black Sea resort of Livadia.  She put the document and the passport
into her handbag. Frieda stood up.

"I'll walk you both to the bus; we'll board together and I'll get off
three stops down.  You continue till you get to the Air Terminal
building.  From there you'll be taken by bus to the airport.  Your
flight leaves at nine o'clock."

"What about the people who are taking over our West German passports?"
Davina asked.

"Don't worry about them," the woman said.

"Even if they were caught, they know nothing about you.  I'm the only
one who does.  If I don't get the signal that they've reached the West
by this evening, I shall disappear for a few weeks until it's safe, or
we know what's happened.  But don't worry.  We've done this run dozens
of times and it's always worked.  Let's go now.  " She followed them out
into the narrow corridor, and she was Fussy Frieda again, chattering and
bustling into the lift and out past the caretaker. She paused, hanging
onto Davina's arm.

"We've had such a lovely visit," she said.

"And now they're taking me to the Briimmerhaus for coffee and cakes such
good chocolate cake they have there..." Her voice faded as they walked
away down the street.  There was a small queue at the stop sign; before
they joined it, Frieda whispered, "Good luck," and then she separated
from them. It was very warm, and the men wore open-necked shirts, the
women dowdy cotton dresses.  Nobody spoke.  When the blue and white bus
came to a halt, everyone filed on board and took their places.  Frieda
found a place in the front; she didn't look at Harrington and Davina.
She got off three stops later, and the last they saw of her was a bent
figure, hurrying along the road with her head down as if she were
walking against a wind.  Schonefeld Airport was a well-designed, compact
terminal, a status symbol for the East Germans, and constructed with
imagination and a kind of stark elegance.  It contrasted with the
general air of drab functionalism that characterized the rebuilt city.
Harrington looked at his watch; like Davina's clothes and accessories
everything was German-made.

"Our next rendezvous is in the self-service cafeteria on the first floor
of External Flights Terminal 2," he said.

"We've got a bit of time in hand; I'd like something to eat, wouldn't
you?" Davina shook her head.

"I'm not hungry," she said.

"There's such a dreadful atmosphere in this place.  Why do we have to go
to the cafeteria?  Are we meeting someone else?"

"Not exactly."  For a second the old impudent grin appeared.

"We came into East Berlin on a day pass; we're going to the Crimea for a
holiday.  We need luggage, my dear Gertrude.  Christ, what a name to
give you I'll never remember it.  Helga wasn't too bad."

"I kept thinking of Helga the Hyena," she said, and she giggled
nervously.

"I don't dare to laugh over here- it might be considered a crime.
Everyone looks so dour and miserable."

"Life in the workers' paradise is no joke," he said.

"I just wish some of our cosy intellectual fellow-travellers could be
sent here for a year without an exit permit.  They might see corrupt old
democracy in a new light...  Here we are." The cafeteria was at the top
of a moving staircase.  It was full of people queuing at the
self-service counters.  Harrington took a tray;

he chose a liverwurst sandwich, apple torte and two cups of coffee.  He
paused after he had paid at the check-out; it was a tiny hesitation
while he got his bearings.  Then as Davina followed, he headed towards a
table three in from the centre aisle.  There was a man sitting there
reading the Ostdeutsches Gazette.  Peter set down the tray and slid in
beside the man, who lowered his newspaper a few inches and glowered at
being disturbed.

Davina took her coffee; she sipped it in silence while he ate.
Announcements came over the loudspeakers.  Flights were called to
Warsaw, Cracow, Bucharest.  Harrington finished the apple torte, and
pushed his plate away.

"That was good," he said.

"I'm looking forward to this holiday, Gertrude.  But you mustn't let me
eat too much." She pulled herself together and said quickly, "No, of
course not.  You don't want to put on weight again.  I've got to be
careful too."

"They say the Russian food is very rich."  He leaned towards her.

"It's the bathing and the beaches I like.  And doing nothing for a bit."

"We're very lucky," she said.

"A holiday like this really sets you up for the winter.  What time is
our flight?"

"Soon," he answered.

"It'll be called soon."

"Excuse me."  The man sitting next to him folded his paper and got up.
Harrington left his seat and stood aside to let him pass. The man pushed
his way out.  Harrington sat down again.

"What a pig," Davina said.

"Did you see him glaring at you while we were talking about the holiday?
When do we get the luggage?"

"It's under the table," he said softly.

"He left it for us.  There's the flight being called now." She listened
to the metallic voice: "Aeroflot flight 4270 to Moscow is boarding at
Gate No.  5.  Passengers will proceed to Gate No.  5 immediately they
have checked in their luggage."  From Moscow they would catch the
shuttle to Simferopol in the Crimea. Harrington stretched under the
table; he hauled out one suitcase and then a smaller one.  Both had
name-tags tied to the handles.  Herr Heinz Fleischer, Frau Gertrude
Fleischer.

"You take the small one," he told her.

"This is an egalitarian society.  Women carry their own bags." They went
down the moving stairs and across the wide expanse of the ground floor
with its check-ins and ticket- offices. Harrington slowed as they neared
the Aeroflot check-in.

"I'm scared," Davina whispered to him.

"Don't worry, the nasty bit is getting through to the plane.  We'll be
all right.  Stick close to me and say nothing." There was a long walk to
Gate No.  5.  She had to hurry to keep up with him, and it made her
breathless by the time they arrived and joined the line of passengers
waiting to go through to the departure area. Two uniformed officials
examined the passports and visas; they took a long time, reading the
documents and referring back to the passports. The second man fixed each
traveller with a cold, aggressive stare. Davina felt her legs trembling;
the sense of breathlessness increased.

"Oh God," she said to herself, 'they'll know there's something wrong
just by looking at me.  if they see my hands shaking.  "

"Gertrude," Harrington snapped at her over his shoulder, 'get your
passport and visa ready.  Come on, it'll be our turn next.  Here, give
them to me.  " She stood a little behind him, wondering if the panic
inside her was visible on her face.  Harrington was like a rock; brusque
with her, subservient to the officials it was a performance to admire
for subtlety.  A petty bureaucrat, assistant manager in the local
Vehicle Licensing Office in a suburb of the city.  He bullied his wife
and toadied to the authorities.  His passport and visa were examined; it
seemed to Davina that they spent longer over their papers than on those
who had gone in front of them. She was beckoned forward, and there was
no Peter Harrington to hide behind. The official studied her passport,
glanced up at her, turned back to the visa and to the passport again.
Trail Fleischer?  "

"Yes," she said.  Her throat was so dry that her voice sounded harsh.
The official didn't speak; he stared at her.  She didn't know that this
charade was part of the system of keeping the citizen in a state of
apprehension, even though he was doing something perfectly legal.  The
passport and documents were stamped, and handed back to her. Harrington
took them immediately and stuffed them into his pocket.

"Come on," he said impatiently; and they were through.  All that
remained was the personal search.  Hand-luggage was sped through an
X-ray machine.  Davina saw her expensive maroon leather bag vanish into
the X-ray, and reappear on the other side.  Nobody else had such a smart
piece of personal luggage as that distinctive bag.  It stood out among
the plastic purses and shabby holdalls; even the briefcases carried by
travelling businessmen were of inferior quality.

"I should never have brought that," she thought suddenly.

"It stands out a mile."

"Through here," someone directed her, and she walked through the
metal-detector screen, and a uniformed woman security guard gave her a
body search.  Harrington was in front of her, waiting.  She joined him,
and he dropped down into a seat.

"Good girl," he murmured.

"You were great.  Here's your bag." She took the handbag from him, and
placed it under her chair.

"I've never been so frightened in my life," she said.

"When they started looking at the papers I shook like a leaf."

"That's just part of the technique," he said.

"I should have warned you.  They like people to be scared.  I must say
Langham Place does a nice bit of forging."

"I saw people looking at my bag," she said.

"I shouldn't have brought it.  Nobody else had anything from the West."

"Stop worrying," he whispered.

"You're just imagining it.  People bring in luxuries when they cross
over."

"Can't I leave it behind?  There's nothing in it but makeup and paper
tissues "Now that would draw attention to us, wouldn't it?  " he said.

"No woman in her right mind forgets a hundred-and twenty-quid bag.  Stop
fussing, will you?"  He sounded genuinely impatient.

"I'm sorry," Davina said.

"I'm just nervous, that's all." Fifteen minutes later they were aboard
the Ilyushin jetliner, buckled into their seat-belts, embarked on a
twelve- hour flight, and an overnight stop at three in the morning. The
big plane began to taxi out into position at the edge of the runway;
Peter Harrington gripped her hand.

"Relax now," he said gently.

"We're on our way." The jet took power and began to speed along the
black path outlined by brilliant landing-lights; it left the ground with
a thrust of the engines and began a smooth climb into the darkness.
Davina looked out of the window at the twinkling lights of the city as
they grew smaller and finally vanished. Russia.  the Russia Sasanov had
talked about with a poet's love, speaking of mankind's need to identify
with his native land. They were going to the Crimea; he had once
described to her the incredible carpet of spring flowers there,
stretching' into infinity; the glittering waters of the Black Sea
lapping the miles of beaches; the pine forests, the sub-tropical climate
and wonderful plant life.  The place where he had spent his honeymoon
with Fedya.  '.  If I could show you Russia," he had said to her, 'you
would understand.  One day, maybe you will go there. Then you'll think
of me.  " She freed her hand from Harrington's, and turned her head to
look out of the little window at the blackness outside.  When drinks
were being ordered, he spoke to her twice before she heard him. Poliakov
gazed at Irina Sasanova over his clasped hands;

they were drinking tea, and he was leaning'towards her, his elbows on
the table. He had overheard remarks among the students; some were
intended to be heard. Keeping her back after class was causing rumours.
She was either a favourite or they were beginning a relationship between
teacher and pupil which was forbidden at the University.  He had left a
note in her book asking her to meet him at a cafe near the big bookshop
on Red Square.  He thought she looked thinner and pale, with deep
shadows under her eyes.  She was wearing a pretty cotton dress, with a
flowered print, and elegant high-heeled sandals. Such clothes were
reserved for the elite who had access to the third floor of Gum. She
hadn't worn anything new like that since her father disappeared. He
tried hard to be detached, to smother his fear that she had decided to
betray him.  The KGB car had called for her several times; once someone
had glimpsed Volkov sitting in the rear as the door was opened and she
got in beside him.

"If she doesn't say anything, we'll have to do something about her." He
remembered the cold-eyed Englishman's words as he looked at Irina. She
put her teacup down and said, "Why are you staring at me?  Is there
anything the matter?" He said the first thing that came to mind, and it
happened to be true.

"I was thinking how pretty you are," he said.

"But you don't look well." Her face flooded with colour; it was pale one
moment, and bright pink the next.

"I'm glad," she said quietly.  She picked up her empty cup and put it
down again.

"I'm glad you think I'm pretty.  But you're right, I don't feel very
well." He filled her cup; she's going to tell me, he said to himself. If
she were a liar and a betrayer, she wouldn't blush like that.  or look
at me in that way.

"What is the matter then?"  he asked. There were no tears in her eyes;
there was a dreadful vacancy in them, as if there was nothing left to
suffer.

"They've sent my mother to the Kolyma camps." He reached out and clasped
her hand.

"Oh, my poor Irina - that's terrible news!"

"She'll never come back," she said.

"It's the worst place on earth. Nobody ever comes back.  "

"How do you know this?" She was holding fast to his hand.

"Antonyii Volkov told me.  I've been sleeping with him; I thought it
might help her." Poliakov was an emotional man.  Irina saw the look on
his face and her heart jumped and fluttered like a bird in her breast.
Many times when she was in bed with Volkov, she tried to imagine that it
was Poliakov holding her.  But the fantasy didn't last, because the
young tutor would never have hurt her, and Volkov liked to inflict pain.

"Do you despise me, Comrade?"

"No," he said violently.

"No.  You did it for your mother.  There's no shame in that.  He is the
shame the scum of the earth!"

"He let me see my mother," she went on.

"She was not too bad, a little thin, but otherwise they hadn't hurt her.
I really thought she might be allowed home after a short sentence.  But
she knew...  She whispered to me," I'll never come back.  " That's what
she said.  But I didn't believe her. Volkov had hinted he could get her
off after a few months in a correction centre.  Then he came round that
night and told me she was going to Kolyma the next day.  I tell you
something; he enjoyed it.  I cried, I lost my head and got down on the
floor to kneel and beg for her, and he was enjoying seeing me suffer. He
wanted to go to bed with me when I was like that.  And afterwards, when
he'd had a sleep, he told me to make coffee and something to eat.  I did
it, Comrade Poliakov.  I was like a dog that's been beaten.  I gave him
the food and wondered why I didn't take the bread-knife and stab him in
the back.  "

"Thank God you didn't," the tutor said.

"Thank God."

"Then he started talking about my father," Irina went on.

"How he had been so sick before he went to England.  And he was watching
me all the time.  Then he said," You know, I don't believe he's dead
after all.

"I didn't say anything.  I was too dulled, too hurt to respond to it. He
said it again.

"I think he's in the West.  Now if you could persuade him to come home,
then I can promise you, your mother would be released immediately."  He
knows I'm in communication with my father," she said slowly, 'and he was
offering me a bargain.  Get him back and your mother goes free.  He had
her sent to Kolyma." The tutor bent his head and gave a low groan of
despair.

"Then we're all lost," he said.

"He's just waiting to arrest me, and then the others.  How does he know?
Did you tell him?  Did you?"  His tone was fierce. She looked at him
steadily.

"No," she said.

"I didn't tell him anything.  He knows my father is alive and hiding in
the West.  He knows we've had word from him, but that's all.  My mother
hasn't told him anything because of me.  But the way he said it," If you
could persuade him to come home.  " ...  Somebody has told him."

"What did you say?"  Poliakov was not convinced; he was very white and
his hand trembled.  He muttered to himself, "My God, they could be
waiting outside for us now." The girl was calmer than he was.

"I said I'd do it," she told him.

"I asked him to tell me what to do, how to get a message to him.  He
just smiled and didn't answer.  I asked again, because I thought he
wanted me to beg.  Then he said," You'll get the opportunity.  I'll tell
you when it comes.  " Then he went out of the flat and left me...  What
am I to do?  I'm frightened to meet you again; he'll have me watched."

"Yes, he will," the tutor said.

"And the other students have been gossiping first about me and now about
the car that comes for you. There is too much talk, Irina.  Listen; I'll
leave a note in your essay book in two days' time, after the lecture.
That will tell you where to find me.  "

"Have you got news from my father?" She looked so anxious and pathetic
that he only just prevented himself from telling her about the new
contact in the British Embassy.  But in all societies ruled by tyranny,
the first casualty among its people is trust.  He shook his head.

"Nothing," he said.

"But we'll hear something soon.  Be patient."  He squeezed her hand
again.

"Be very careful."

"I will," she said.

"Volkov won't do anything to me.  He's going to use me to destroy my
father.

I'm safe for the moment anyway.  But you be careful, won't you,
Comrade?" He nodded.

"I'll leave first," he said.

"There's a back entrance through the wash-room.  I'll slip out there.
Can you pay the bill?"

"He gives me money," she said flatly.

"I can pay." He nodded to her again, and hurried away from the table to
the toilets at the rear.  The back door opened out onto a narrow street.
He paused in the doorway, looking up and down, but there was nobody in
sight.  He walked away from the place as fast as he could. Volkov knew.
How much did he know?  If he knew about Sasanov's message to his family,
then he must know the channel that transmitted it.  He broke into a cold
sweat of fear again.  Why hadn't he acted?  Why was he playing his cruel
game with Irina and her mother, unless it was genuine, and he really did
intend to blackmail the defector into returning. Poliakov shook his head
as he hurried by, his lips moving in frantic arguments with himself.  It
was too difficult, too complex for him to see the truth.  He was an
intellectual, a liberal. Only the mind of a spy could unravel the
sinister motives of another spy.  He went into the bookshop on Red
Square and left a bus ticket in the volume of Russian poetry, the signal
for the meeting with Spencer-Barr the following day. Sasanov was alone;
Kidson had provided cigarettes and vodka and the snack meal he had
wanted instead of dinner.  Then he left the Russian with the photocopy
files sent down from London.  Sasanov had read them through once, to get
an impression of the contents.  Now, with a halo of cigarette smoke
hanging in the air overhead, he was reading page by page and making
notes. There was Davina Graham's personal file.  He read that, and
occasionally he frowned.  It didn't bring her to life.  It was a
collection of facts that suggested a cold spinster, uninterested in men
because of an early disappointment, a de-sexed woman with a man's
intellect.  Words like reliable, meticulous, occurred regularly in her
first-year chits;

she became ingenious, inspired, and finally'a potentially brilliant
operator on home ground'.  That was last year, before she was put in
charge of him.

"Most unlikely to become involved with the subject." And reading that,
Sasanov smiled.  Then the investigations began after the Hall- dale
fire.  Her friendship with Peter Harrington was analysed; the dates,
places and times of their few meetings were recorded, their own
statements cross checked Harrington's name was accompanied by a coding
for his own file.  That was there too.  There was her account of their
stop at the motel, which had saved both their lives.  The cross-check
showed that she had omitted hiring the room for sex purposes.  Her
weekly reports to the Brigadier had not been included. Sasanov
understood their reluctance to let him read about himself.  Even his
interview at the Garrick Club had been abstracted. From the moment
Halldale was attacked, Davina had been under close surveillance by her
own people.  Every telephone call was monitored;

there had been bugs hidden in the little flat.  The tapes were not
included, but they were referred to when their relationship and her
concealment of it was discussed.  Suspicion had centred on her at one
time;

investigators hurried back to check her past at university, even the
faithless fiance was scrutinized for pro-Soviet leanings. Sasanov
muttered impatiently as he read.  What a waste of time.  All they were
investigating was a woman in love.  To his surprise the last interviews
with Grant and the Brigadier had been included.  He did not know that
they had edited out the signing of the official undertaking and the
earlier references to it.  He read her spirited defence of his interests
and her reproaches to the Brigadier when he reneged on his promise to
let Sasanov go. He paused, seeing her in imagination.  He knew exactly
how she would look, and the tone of her voice.  She had a resolute
courage.  He knew it well. The details of her role in Russia followed
immediately afterwards.  His frown grew deeper.  Once he exclaimed out
loud.  He closed the file and dropped it on the ground. His face was
grim. He began the long, thick dossier on Peter Harrington, which went
back for nearly twenty years.  There were a dozen such dossiers to be
read;

the personal files of every member of the security staff at Halldale,
the investigators' reports on the fire itself, the Sussex police
investigation of the accident to the van driver; the nurse who had
mentioned a devoted grandson, who used to take her out, and suddenly
stopped visiting about the time of the fire.  It would take days to read
through everything in detail and to sift through the evidence and the
conclusions in his search for a clue a clue to the Soviet agent who had
discovered that he was hiding in the nursing-home.  Sas anov lit a
cigarette.  The fire was a typical Moscow Centre operation. The man who
attacked the van driver on his way to Halldale Manor had been on a
motorcycle.  That much the injured man had told the police before he
died. Tracks were found by the road, and marks in the ditch indicated
that the machine had been hidden there.  The tracks were clear on the
direction back towards London, and then lost on the main road.  No trace
of the killer had been found.  Police information didn't point to an
underworld contract; the nature of the bomb ruled out ordinary criminal
activity. Only the Centre people had access to that kind of weapon.  So
the Brigadier's men were hunting for one man, while the Scotland Yard
Special Branch were searching for another.  Sasanov opened the file on
Peter Arthur Harrington, aged forty-eight, and began to read it very
carefully. On the floor below him, Kidson and Grant were having their
own private conference.  They had just spoken to the Brigadier on the
telephone. Neither looked very pleased.

"Why couldn't the Americans have waited?"  Kidson asked.

"What's the point of coming down here right in the middle of it?  It
could easily throw him off balance; do they realize that?"

"They wouldn't care," Grant said.

"We've let them know there's top-grade information coming, and they
bloody well won't be satisfied with what we choose to give them. They're
insisting on hearing it for themselves."

"I suppose we couldn't keep it quiet," Kidson grumbled.

"Not after the Chief saw the Prime Minister," Grant said.

"She insisted on telling the Americans, and naturally they want one of
the Cousins to sit in.  Serves us right for electing a woman.  They've
no real judgement." He pursed his thin lips in disapproval.  Kidson hid
his smile.  Poor old Robespierre.  If he had his way the world would be
populated only by men.

"I think we'd better warn him," he said, indicating Sasanov above.

"I'll drop a hint tomorrow.  I wonder if he'll find anything we missed?
He's keen enough wouldn't have dinner, just wanted to spend the evening
working- through our files.  "

"It's a good opportunity for him to throw suspicion on one of our own
people, isn't it," Grant muttered.

"I'm beginning to have doubts about him, Kidson.  He's blowing Soviet
foreign policy for the next ten years, but that's not enough.  He wants
to expose a top Russian agent at the same time.  And I don't believe
that business about the wife for a moment.  If she's gone to the Arctic
Circle, she'll be dead long before we could negotiate any exchange with
the Russians.  He knows that as well as we do.  But the Brigadier is
playing along with him.  He's even tried to convince me that he believes
Sasanov's motives are entirely genuine."

"I'm beginning to think they are," Kidson answered.

"I've said from the start, he's in a state of high tension.  It's not
the usual way, but then he's broken all the rules so far.  He's not as
cold-hearted as you might expect, in spite of what he's been.  We know
through the dissidents that he did try to help Belezky.  We also know
that he's a very affectionate husband and father.  And he cares more
about Davina Graham than you think.  She seems to have had quite an
effect on him. We know she made a fool of herself and she's not the
impressionable type.  "

"She's a frustrated career girl," Grant snapped.

"All Sasanov did was drop his trousers and she thinks it's love.  If I'd
been in the office at the time, I'd never have advised the Chief to send
him off with a woman."

"Then he mightn't have come round at all," Kidson pointed out.

"What matters is, he has.  He's given us everything; more than we
expected, and at twice the usual rate.  He may know it'll be too late to
save his wife, but he needs to try, to hope.  And he's worried sick
about Davina Graham.  I don't find his eagerness to dig up our Mole as
suspect as you do." Grant stood up.

"Time to go in to dinner," he said.

"I wonder who he'll pick out?" Kidson held the door open for him and
they walked out into the corridor towards the private dining-room.

"God knows," he said.  A burst of laughter drifted through from the big
room where the officers in training had their meals.

"But it gives me a very uncomfortable feeling." Spencer-Barr paid
regular visits to the bookshop, and the surly assistant had become more
friendly.  He bought a lot of books, and spent time wandering round the
shelves.  He was establishing a habit. He knew the significance of the
bus ticket, and he bought the book of poetry. The following afternoon at
three o'clock he was back at the counter, asking if he could change it
for something else.  The assistant gave him a credit slip and he moved
away to the bookshelves at the back. Poliakov arrived five minutes
later.  They placed themselves in a corner where the shelves angled,
with a view of anyone approaching.  Spencer Barr listened while the
tutor explained what had happened to Irina.

"We're all in terrible danger," he concluded.

"Volkov is using the Mother as bait to get the Father to return.  The
Daughter says he knows there's been communication between them.  But he
doesn't know the details.  That makes no sense to me."

"I'm afraid it makes some rather nasty sense to me," Spencer-Barr said.

"If he had information from his own end, it would naturally include you,
because you're the link between the Daughter and the Father.  If he
doesn't know about you, it's because he's getting information from the
West, and the informant there doesn't know the details."

"Oh, my God," Poliakov groaned.

"I don't understand this someone in the West is giving information about
us to the KGB?  Can that be true?"

"It looks like it," the Englishman said.

"Unless, of course, he's more interested in getting the Father to come
back, and then he'll pull you and your friends in when he's ready." He
saw the Russian turn white, and said brutally, "That's probably the
case. The main point is he knows the Daughter can get word to the
Father. That's going to complicate our plan, because he's going to hang
on to her till he's ready to put her in action.  And you're quite sure
she's not working for him, and stringing you along at the same time?  "
Poliakov said, "I'm certain.  I believed her.  She isn't betraying us."
He cleared his throat a little, and looked embarrassed.

"I think she's in love with me," he said.

"Then you'd better play on it," Jeremy said.

"Sleep with her if you can.  In the meantime I'm going to refer this
back to London.  I think we'll have to speed up our operation and get
the Daughter out ahead of schedule.  I should get an answer in the next
two days."  He pulled out a textbook on collective farming.

"This is the postbox.  I'll leave a message when I've heard from
London."  He pushed the book back onto the shelf.

"I shouldn't think anyone'd want to read that rubbish," he said.

"Considering you have to buy your grain from the capitalist West.  Meet
me the next day at the Science Exhibition.  Same time as today.  I'll go
first." He walked away, leaving Poliakov to waste a few minutes before
he left the shop.  The young man was still pale, and sweat shone on his
forehead; he wiped his face and tried to still his nerves.  He hated the
arrogant foreigner, so safe behind his diplomatic immunity, so openly
contemptuous of him for being afraid.  And he hated him for degrading
Irina Sasanova.

"Sleep with her if you can."  He called Spencer-Barr a crude name under
his breath.  Then with an effort he composed himself, wiped his damp
face once again, and walked out into public view.  There were a few
people in the section; two were occupying the assistant, who didn't look
up or see him.  A man came up to him suddenly, and when the man barred
his way, Poliakov thought for a second that he was going to have a heart
attack.  But the man only asked where the French textbooks were
situated.  The tutor said he didn't know, and hurried on to the street
door.  It was some time before he stopped shaking and feeling out of
breath. When Spencer-Barr returned to the Embassy he went to the code
room in the basement of the main building on Naberezhnaia Morisa Toreza.
The principal coding officer was the only person beside the Head of
Chancery and the regular Intelligence officer in the trade department
who knew what Jeremy's real function was.  He sat down and composed a
long telex to the Brigadier in London, which the coding officer put into
code and transmitted.  Then he went back upstairs to his desk.  There
was a reception at the Indian Embassy that evening; he was looking
forward to it.  He enjoyed the social side of embassy life, because it
provided scraps of gossip and information which could be useful one day.
He was already popular with the senior diplomats and their wives.  He
was always charming, attentive to the women and deferential to the men.
And he usually positioned himself near to the Russians.  Nobody had any
idea that he was fluent in the language. The Tsarist Summer Palace at
Livadia had been turned into a health centre, specializing in
cardiology; the magnificent Great Livadia Palace was the venue for the
Yalta conference, and had been opened as a museum devoted to the
Conference, and an art gallery for contemporary Soviet painters and
sculptors. It was Davina's suggestion that they should go and see it.
Harrington agreed, but without enthusiasm.

"I'm not mad on sightseeing," he said.

"And one museum devoted to the cultural achievements of the great Soviet
Socialist Revolution should do me for a lifetime.  But we'll go if you'd
like to see it."

"The architecture is marvelous," she said.

"And we don't have to spend much time inside.  I really want to see the
gardens." The facade of the Palace was breathtakingly beautiful,
snow-white in the hot sunshine, framed in magnificent pine trees and
spectacular gardens. They went into the Yalta Conference museum, and
wandered round the exhibits;

neither felt any enthusiasm for the art gallery.

"Well, at least we've seen where the West lost the war after beating the
Germans," Davina said.

"I wonder how many millions died or became slaves as a result of the
decisions made here.

Harrington said, "There's no such thing as a fair treaty any more than
there's a just war...  Come on, let's go outside you said you wanted to
see the gardens."

"So I do," she retorted.

"I find this place oppressive;

everywhere you turn you're having their opinions forced on you.  All
those superlatives the Great Patriotic War the Glorious Revolutionary
Struggle. and I thought all the palaces were stripped and torn down in
the Revolution.

"Some of them were," Harrington agreed.

"But the summer palaces escaped the mobs.  They like to show Livadia
because they can point out how the royals lived in opulence while the
people starved. It makes good propaganda.  They've got all the jewels
and the Faberge treasures in the Kremlin.  One thing I'd like to see is
good old Catherine the Great's little pornographic room.  But they don't
show that to the public."

"Come on," she said.

"Let's wander round.  The gardens are gorgeous, aren't they?  Look at
that avenue of palms, and that staircase leading onto the terrace.  Did
you read the book, Nicholas and Alexandra' ' " I thought you were
thinking of it," he said.

"Brings them to life, walking round here and seeing where they lived.
She was mad about mauve, wasn't she symptom of a depressive
personality."

"I wonder whether the Tsar would've survived if he'd married someone
else," she said.

"You can't help feeling sorry for her, but she really ruined him."
Harrington took her arm, and they began to walk up the marble staircase
to the upper terrace.

"History is determined by trends; personalities have far less impact
than we think.  Nicholas was a weakling and Alexandra was a
strong-willed neurotic. They were perfect for the time and the trend, as
it happened, but they weren't responsible for it and the Revolution was
part of the world wide upheaval of the time.  Nothing could have
prevented" You sound like Karl Marx," Davina said.

"Or Henry Ford," Peter retorted.  "History is bunk."  That's what he
said. And Marx said pretty much the same.  History is bunk the way we're
taught it, because the personalities feature far too much.  The Romanovs
are a good example.  We learn all about the Tsar and Rasputin, when the
real reason for the Revolution was an irresistible economic and
sociological change.  "

She stopped and stared at him in mock surprise.  "Good Lord, don't tell
me I've found something you take seriously?  You're quite a student of
dialectics.  No wonder you get visas for a holiday in the Crimea!" He
grinned at her.

"Now, Gertrude, let me remind you of something else Henry Ford said,
about his customers and the Model T.  " They can have any colour they
like so long as it's black.  " I wonder whether it was humour or just
pure cynicism.  But it proves my point.  People are the sands on the
shore;

history is the wave that moves them, not the other way about.  Now
that's a fine view over the sea, isn't it?  Just think of that family
taking their tea out here and looking at that, never thinking for one
second in their lives that they'd all be dead in a basement room before
the decade was over.  "

"Don't," she shuddered.

"What a horrible thought."

"No more horrible than the poor devils freezing to death in Siberia
while the Tsar was sunning himself out here," he said.

"The point is, the Tsar's gone but there are still people in the Gulag.
So nothing very much has changed in some people's condition.  Maybe
they're just born unlucky."

"You're very morbid," she accused him.

"I've never seen you like this. Ever since we got here you've been
drawing parallels about how rotten human nature is, and how nothing
changes no matter what we do.  What's the matter with you?  " He walked
on down the terrace; groups of holiday makers were climbing up the
stairs and clustering round the marble balustrading, looking out to the
breathtaking view over the Black Sea.  Children called to each other and
tried to climb up. Harrington paused in a quiet place;

behind them the tall windows which opened out to the terrace flashed
fire in the hot sun.  There was a rich scent of roses from the beds
below them.

"What is it?"  she said again.

"Are you worried about something?" He nodded, looking out to sea.

"I don't like Russia," he said.

"I get the feeling something's going to go wrong.  I know it isn't; it's
just the country.  It broods over you.  Don't you find that?  It's so
bloody enormous."

"I think it's beautiful," she answered quietly.

"I'd like to see so much more of it.  I think this is a paradise the
climate, the scenery, the plant life.  I don't feel anything sinister
about it at all." He looked at her.

"No, I suppose not," he said.

"But you didn't find anything sinister about Sasanov either.  Maybe
Russia would suit you.  Let's go back to the hotel and see if there's
been any message for us."

"All right, but it's too early.  We won't hear anything till next week."

"I wish they'd hurry up," Peter Harrington said.

"I'll be really glad to get out of here." They walked out of the grounds
and back along the beach road to the Intourist hotel where they were
staying.  Neither of them spoke on the way. Kidson was absent for the
morning meeting.  Grant made his apologies, and the session with Sasanov
began.  That morning he concentrated upon Soviet plans to turn the
Saudi-Arabian king off his throne and to neutralize the rest of the
family, except for a distant cousin with sufficient royal blood to put
himself forward as a candidate.  The attack on the Grand Mosque was to
be carried out by specially trained guerrillas composed of Shiite
Moslems, Saudis, who would front for the fanatics of the Fedayeen and
the Palestinians, all Moscow-trained and armed with the latest weapons,
including small-calibre rockets.  The murder of Sheik Yamani was to take
place just before the uprising.  Under the guise of a Moslem rebellion,
the royal family would be taken and killed, and the puppet prince put on
the throne.  The Prince had long been suborned by Russian promises of
power in return for his support.  His father had been a prince of the
blood royal, but his mother was a Jordanian Hashemite;

her son was plagued by tribal as well as family jealousy, seeing himself
passed over in the king's favour for others of no higher rank. He was,
as Sasanov described him, a weak, vindictive man, paranoid in his
suspicions, obsessed with a false sense of grievance.  His hatred of the
pro-Western Yamani had been a factor in making him a Russian
sympathizer. Arthur Warburton from the Foreign Office was completely
absorbed; the Soviet expert Franks only took his eyes off the Russian in
order to make quick notes.  The steno typer hands flew over the
keyboard, and the big room was silent except for the deep voice of
Sasanov.  He was sweating as he talked, and at intervals he pulled at
the open neck of his shirt as if it were buttoned and restricting him.
He had power and authority, and he had captured them all the hardened
diplomats and experts, the steely Longman from Defence.  Only Grant
remained aloof, clinically detached, observing and making silent
conclusions.  He wondered what would happen when Kidson came back.
Kidson returned in mid-afternoon.  He had driven down from London and he
was hot after the journey; he went into Grant's room first.

"The Chief says I've got to tell him exactly what Spencer Barr sent in
the telex.  He says that Sasanov will know how to interpret it better
than we will.  Set a thief to catch a thief.  That's his view.  I'm not
looking forward to it.  How did the morning session go?"

"Like all the others," Grant answered.

"A mass of details, names, times, motives, etc.  Political dynamite you
should have seen Warburton's face.  You go and see Sasanov and break the
news.

I cancelled the afternoon session anyway so there's no need to hurry.

I'll be here if you want me.  " It seemed to be at least five minutes
before Sasanov spoke.  Kidson had lit his pipe and was sitting on the
sofa opposite him.  He had given him the telex, and said briefly, "This
came last night.  We hate to do this to you, Ivan, but we've no chance
of acting successfully without your help. Please read it." Sasanov was
normally healthy looking; he had tanned from walking in the bright
sunshine.  Now his face turned a dull grey; the eyes seemed to sink into
his head and the cheeks drew it; he looked suddenly old. He put the
decoded telex down.  The change to anger was gradual as Kidson watched
him, while he fiddled with his pipe and matches.  He had never seen
naked fury alter a man's whole facial appearance.  It shocked him.

"Antonyii Volkov and my daughter.  He has my daughter and he's raping
her."

"It doesn't say," Kidson began, but suddenly Sasanov bellowed at him.

"I know what Volkov likes!  I know what he does to Irina!" He leapt from
his chair, and beat his clenched fists against his forehead. It was a
primeval gesture of rage-and agony.

"I will kill him," he shouted again, "I will go back and I will tear the
head off his body for this with these two hands!"

"Steady yourself," Kidson said quietly.

"You can't do that.  You can only get at Volkov through us." He didn't
think Sasanov had heard him.  He had lapsed into Russian and some of it
was difficult to understand because he was stumbling over the words.

"Fedya, Fedya..."  ; he recognized the constant reference to Sasanov's
wife. He knocked out his pipe and got up.  He put his arm round the
Russian's shoulder.

"Steady," he said again.

"Calm yourself.  We've got to save your daughter.  You are the one
person who can help us now.  Sit down and I'll get us both a drink."
Sasanov pushed him aside, but then he dropped into his chair and picked
up the telex again.  Kidson handed him a glass of brandy.  He drank it
straight down.  He looked up at the Englishman.

"Kolyma is death," he said in English.

"Volkov knows I will understand that.  No more brandy, I have to think.
I have to put myself into his mind and see what he is thinking." He got
up and moved round the room, from the door to the window;

pacing, pausing suddenly, and beginning his restless walking again.
Kidson had a very small brandy himself.

"We must go back to the beginning," Sasanov said.

"To my relationship with Belezky.  My friendship with him was known; I
made no secret of it.  I tried to help him when he was arrested, but
always by advising him to plead guilty and hope for mercy.  That was
known too.  But he was Volkov's prey, and Volkov wanted him destroyed.
So he sent him to the psychiatric hospital and they killed him.  His
wife went to the Gulag. The others were arrested and punished in the
same way.  Volkov had broken the inner circle of Soviet dissent.  He is
an ambitious man; he loves cruelty and he loves power.  His eyes are
fixed upon the highest job of all, the Director of State Security.  He
wants to become the head of the KGB and take his place in the Politburo.
His ambition is well-known, and the present Director is not a young man.
He must retire next year.  But the job has to be earned. Only a man of
exceptional qualities can hope for the appointment.  So Volkov needs to
prove himself.  First he has established that I defected and am being
hidden in England.  The attack on your safe house at Halldale proves
that.  But it failed and he knows that too.  Then he finds an excuse to
arrest my wife.  Why?  Not because she told the lie that was expected of
her she identified the body as mine, and the Soviet Government gave it
an official burial.  Her arrest is part of Volkov's plan to bring me
back to Russia.  So is sleeping with Irina.  He knows how I will react
to that.  Everything he is doing is aimed at me, don't you see that?  "

"What makes him think we'd let you go?"  Kidson asked. Sasanov
hesitated.

"I think he is planning an exchange," he said slowly.

"Something to make you send me back.  And he is able to do this because
he has an agent here the same agent who planned the fire-bomb attack,
the agent who knows Irina can get word to me about what is happening to
her.  That agent will have told him we are planning to take Irina out of
Russia.  How much he has told Volkov depends upon who he is.  And where
he is."  He looked at Kidson.

"That's why I must find him. Otherwise Volkov will win.  "

"Do you remember Davina Graham's sister?"  Kidson asked him.

"Yes," Sasanov frowned.

"I remember her.  Why?"

"Because she may have just come up with something," Kidson said.

"Her father went to see the Chief; he was worried about Davina.  The
sister had been home and told him someone was asking her questions about
Davina, and about you.  Or rather the Polish diplomat you were supposed
to be.  The Chief thinks it would be a good idea if you saw Mrs. Ransom
and questioned her yourself, since you've taken on to find the Mole.
Have you made any progress with those files?  "

"I've got some questions," Sasanov said.

"New questions;

the files don't have an answer.  When can I see the sister?  Why not
tonight? There isn't any time to be slow and British," he said roughly.

"My daughter and three of your agents are in Russia sitting in Volkov's
hand, like mice in a trap."

"I'll call London," Kidson said.

"I can drive up with you.  She can't come here." The flat in Portman
Place was on the first floor.  Charley opened the door to Kidson, and
for a moment she didn't recognize Sasanov because he was wearing a hat.
When he stepped into the hall and took it off, she gasped out loud.

"Oh, good lord it's you!"

"Good evening," he said. Kidson took her gently by the arm.

"I'm sorry I didn't warn you your sister's friend was coming with me,"
he said gently.

"I'll explain everything." Charley was going out to dinner; the call
from Brigadier White's office had been friendly but firm.  Her father
had been to see him, and he too was rather worried about Davina.  He
hadn't said in what respect.  He was sure she'd be able to answer a few
questions if he sent someone round after six-thirty.  So nice to talk to
her it was ages since they'd met; she must lunch with him one day if she
was free.  The call ended, and she had hardly said anything but, yes, of
course.  She had got dressed early, and decided that really there was
nothing to be nervous about, and it might be amusing to meet someone
from the Ministry of Defence.  Floating black chiffon, and her
ex-husband's present of a pearl-and-diamond choker gave her an Edwardian
look.  Kidson gazed at her with admiration.  She offered the two men
drinks, moving gracefully between them and the drinks trolley, and
settled herself on the sofa with a provocative smile at Kidson. She was
determined not to show that she was nervous.  The Pole looked grim and
rather ill- humoured, as if her attempts to be polite were wasting time.
And oh, he did look so like the photograph of that dead Russian.

"Mrs.  Ransom," Kidson started off.

"Would you tell us about this friend of yours who kept asking questions
about your sister?  Mr. Spencer-Barr, wasn't it?" She nodded.

"Yes, I thought it was very odd.  I told my father about it."  She
turned towards Sasanov as he spoke to her.

"Tell me when you first met this man," he said.

"Try to remember everything he said, and you said.  Can you do that?"

"I think so," she said.

"I've got a very good memory.  It was the same evening I left Marchwood,
that weekend when you were there.  " Sasanov listened.  After a time he
asked her questions.

"Why did you think he was interested in your sister and me?"

"I didn't know," she said.

"It seemed so funny at first.  I kept feeling he didn't really like me
or want to take me out.  That's what made me notice it, I suppose. Every
time he asked some question, either about Davy or else you and Davy."

"What sort of question?  What did he ask about her?"

"Had I seen her lately; was she still in the Defence Ministry...  He
mentioned that she'd been given a job in preference to him.  He seemed
very annoyed about it.  He tied this in with you, and tried to find out
if you and she were having an affair.  I said I didn't know.  I thought
he might try and get Davy into trouble."

"And what did he ask about me?"  Sasanov said.

"Had I met you again.  I said no.  I told him I hardly ever saw my
sister.  I even told him why because of my first marriage; she probably
told you about that." Kidson saw the dislike on his face when he nodded
and said "Yes, she told me. What did you think he was trying to find out
from you?" Charley hesitated.  Sasanov prompted her.

"About where Vina was, if she wasn't in Defence?  Pid he want to know if
we were living in the same place?  Did he ever try to find out an
address anything like that?"

"No."  She shook her head.  The light gleamed in the piled- up silky red
hair.

"He just asked general things; I felt he was trying to establish
something he could use against her.  He said she wasn't supposed to have
a relationship with a man in this job she'd been given."  She turned to
Kidson.

"That's what really worried me.  I felt he might hurt Davy's career in
some way." Sasanov said casually, "You told him I was a Pole, didn't
you, the first time you met?" He saw a little colour creep into her
face.

"Yes," she said.

"Yes, actually I think that was what made him interested.  I couldn't
give him any details because I didn't know any, except that your name
was Pavel."

"And he seemed happy to accept that?"  Sasanov asked.

"You were happy to accept it, weren't you?"

"Of course."  She looked startled.

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"No reason at all," he said. He signalled to Kidson, who stood up.

"Thank you, Mrs. Ransom; it's very kind of you to see us, and you've
been very helpful.  I hope we haven't kept you late for your dinner
party." She gave him her hand, and her angelic smile.

"Not at all.  I hope I've been useful." Then she took him completely by
surprise.  She glanced at Sasanov.

"Pavel, would you mind if I spoke to Mr. Kidson alone for a moment?"

"No, I'll wait in the hall."  Sasanov went out. Charley let go of
Kidson's hand and the smile disappeared.

"He is Russian, Isn't he?  The one who was supposed to be found drowned
-I thought I recognized him from the newspapers.  What is Davina mixed
up in?" Kidson didn't know it, but there was a strong look of her mother
in the set of Charley's lovely jaw.

"Mrs.  Ransom," he said quietly, "I can't answer either of those
questions I'm sorry."

"Davina and I haven't ever been close friends," she said.

"But she is my sister.  And I hurt her very badly once.  She's not just
a secretary, is she?  She's doing something dangerous, I can feel it.
Where is she, Mr. Kidson?  I have a right to know." Kidson made a quick
decision.  Charlotte Ransom was not a fool or she wouldn't have seen
through Spencer Barr Or recognized Sasanov.  The one thing she must do
was keep silent now.

"She's in Russia," he said.  He saw her turn ghost-white.

"One word of this, one whisper about Pavel or your sister, and she could
be in very great danger indeed.  I know we can rely on you, Mrs. Ransom.
Not a word.  Not even to your family.  "

"I promise you," she said.  Her eyes filled suddenly with tears.

Kidson had a wish to take her in his arms and comfort her that really
shocked him.

"I couldn't bear it if anything happened to her," she said.  The tears
were blinked back and the stubborn look returned.

"Don't worry; nobody will hear anything from me.  Will you let me know
when she comes back?"

"I will," Kidson said, and he meant it.

"Goodbye.  And thank you." He joined Sasanov in the hall and they let
themselves out.  They went down in the lift, Sasanov pulling the hat
down to shade his face.  They crossed the thickly carpeted foyer, passed
the doorman in his cubicle, and slipped into the back of the waiting
car.  As it sped up through the park towards Marylebone, Kidson said to
Sasanov, "It doesn't look good for Spencer-Barr, does it?"

"What does your Chief think?"  the Russian asked him.

"He was shaken rigid," came the answer.

"And what do you think?"  Sasanov continued.

"I'd rather not commit myself till I have heard Spencer Barr
explanation," he said after a pause.

"There must be an explanation."

"I'm sure there is," Sasanov said.

"But he isn't here to give it.  He's in Russia, heading a rescue mission
for my daughter.  Can't this driver go any faster?"

"Not till we're on the motorway.  We'll be back in just over an hour."

"I want to get back to those files," Sasanov muttered.

"There's something I've missed.  The answer to one of my questions...
No, wait a minute.  Where is that place, Jules' Bar?" Kidson stared at
him.

"In Jermyn Street.  Why?"

"Tell the man to go there," Sasanov said.

"Now!" Spencer-Barr got an answer from London by late in the afternoon.
He was called into the decoding room, where the principal coding-officer
gave him the unscrambled message.

"Your communication received and being given urgent attention.  Date for
Daughter's rendezvous advanced to 25th.  Departure the same day. Contact
Daniel and advise.  Final arrangements to follow." Jeremy gave the
message back; it was marked with the prefix MSD -meaning most secret,
destroy.  It went into the shredder.

"Thanks," he said to the clerk and walked out.  He went upstairs to his
own small office and sent the secretary out for a cup of tea.  He sat
rather still when he was alone; then he picked up a pencil and began to
tap it.  The tapping went on until the girl came back with the tea. She
had provided some biscuits as well.  She thought Spencer Barr terribly
attractive, and she paid him little attentions to find favour. He hadn't
asked her out since his first sightseeing tour of Moscow, and she was
disappointed.  He smiled at her.

"Biscuits?  That's very kind of you, Jane.  What's my social engagement
this evening?" She looked up his desk diary.

"We've got a reception here," she said.

"And there's a supper and a recital at the French Embassy.  You're down
for both.  "

"Very hard on the liver, this sort of life," he said.  She giggled
appreciatively. He had received a long letter from his girl-friend,
Mary, in London. He hadn't answered yet, and felt guilty.  The letter
was like Mary;

sensible, affectionate and undemanding.  She mentioned that she was
inquiring about an In- tourist trip to Moscow in the autumn, as she
would like to see him.  She thought his appointment would last the usual
two years.  He looked at the secretary and thought of Mary.  He did miss
her.  If he managed this affair successfully, he might still get to New
York.  or even Washington. Washington would suit him better.  The 25th
was only eight days away. London had certainly accelerated after his
message.  But there were no details yet. That was a bloody bore, he
thought.  They must have everything worked out to the last minute on an
operation like this.  Harrington and Davina Graham would be waiting at
Livadia.  The Daughter had to get a pass to leave Moscow. It was cutting
it a bit fine.  It was just as well he'd got the message before the
reception tonight.  He left his office early and went to his flat in the
Embassy compound to shower and change. Poliakov had found the bus ticket
in the book; the following day he met Spencer-Barr at the place agreed
for an emergency rendezvous, the Science Exhibition on Stalin grad
Avenue.  It was a big, sprawling modern building with a series of small
courts separating the different sections.  Poliakov hurried to the
atomic energy complex at three o'clock.  He found Spencer-Barr gazing at
a mock-up of molecules and the related atoms.  It looked like a very
complicated toy, all coloured balls and oblongs and delicate structures.
Spencer-Barr didn't turn his head.

"The Daughter's to go to Livadia by the 25th and be ready to leave on
the same day.  No other details are available at the moment, but she
must get a pass to Livadia.  Contact her and impress on her she's got to
be in situ by that date.  Meet me in the bookshop in two days and I'll
have further news for you." Poliakov stared at their reflections in the
glass case protecting the exhibit.

"That's seven days," he muttered.

"What happens if she can't get there in time?"

"She won't get away," Spencer-Barr said flatly.

"She's got to get the pass.  What progress have you made with her?" The
tutor reddened.

"I haven't seen her," he said shortly.

"I'll tell her tomorrow." He turned and walked away.  Jeremy watched him
in the glass until he left the room.  Then he spent the next hour
wandering round the exhibition.  Science had been one of his best
subjects. The postcard was in their pigeon-hole in the entrance-hall of
the hotel. Davina saw it and pulled Harrington's arm.  He said quickly,
"I've seen it. We'll just get the key and take it casually." The key to
their room and the postcard were handed to them by the woman
receptionist.  She was less surly than the rest of the hotel staff; she
spoke good German, and offered to arrange a coach tour, or an organized
boat trip round the coast.  Peter said they preferred to spend the time
on the beach or wandering round the permitted areas of the resort. They
had come in from swimming; Russians did not encourage scant bikinis, and
walking round in mini-shorts or bra-tops was forbidden. There was an
old-fashioned air about the beaches, with bathing-huts and seats along
the promenades; it reminded Davina of childhood visits to Brighton and
Have.  Harrington looked brown and fit; she was inclined to burn unless
she was careful; he had teased her because she was pink and freckled,
and her hair had turned redder in the sunshine. He glanced at the
postcard and then handed it to her.

"From your Aunt Frieda," he said. Davina saw the receptionist watching
them, while she pretended to sort some keys; she had certainly read the
postcard.  Davina turned it over and read the meaningless message
written in Schrift.

"Hope you are having wonderful holiday.  Trudi getting married on the
25th. We're all busy preparing for the wedding.  Do send a postcard.
Love from everyone, Frieda." They went up the stairs to their room on
the second floor.  It had a pleasant view over the sea-front. Harrington
held out his hand for the card.  She gave it to him.  He sat on the bed
and took a pocket diary out of his jacket. He opened it at the calendar
page and began to write on the postcard above the lines of writing.  It
took him only five minutes, and then he gave it back to her.  The
decoded message read, "The Daughter will reach you on the 25th.  You
depart the same day.  Further instructions will follow." She nodded and
he took it back; he lit the corner with his lighter and held it till it
flamed and curled up.  It burnt out in the ashtray, and Harrington
washed the mess down the basin, scrubbing the burn-marks off the
ashtray. Then he washed the basin itself, and ran the taps for some time
to clear the pipe.

"The 25th," he said.

"That's a Saturday.  Good day for a wedding.  It's about time Trudi
settled down."

"I'm sorry we won't be there," Davina said.

"But it can't be helped. Do you feel like eating yet?  "

"I think a beer first," he said.

"Hurry up if you want to change and we'll go out." They spent as much
time as possible out of the hotel and away from their room.  It was
unlikely to be wired up, but Harrington said every Intourist hotel was
monitored and all the staff were police spies who reported on everything
said and done by foreigners.  Even the Iron Curtain tourists were
subjected to the same rigorous scrutiny as visitors from the West, and
they were not encouraged to make friends with the Russian holiday
makers. Russians didn't welcome attempts to talk to them, since they
were frightened of being seen with foreigners.  Fear was as effective a
screen as barbed wire.  The Intourist visitor saw what he was meant to
see, and had no contact with ordinary Russians.  Otherwise he could
enjoy himself.  They sat down in an open-air cafe and bar, Harrington
choosing a table which was on the perimeter and not too close to others.
There they could talk.

"She'll be here on the 25th.  That's seven days from now.  How am I
going to sleep in that bloody awful lumpy bed with you for another seven
nights and not give way to my ravening desire?"  He grinned at Davina.

"Freckle-nose," he said.

"Why don't you dye your hair red?  It'd look rather smashing."

"Why don't you shut up and be serious for a minute," she retorted.

"Seven days.  And how are we going to get her out?"

"We won't know till the next bulletin," Harrington said.

"I'm damned if I can see how we're going to get her away the same day.
Still, that's not our worry.  Our job is to be here and take charge of
her when she comes.  And get the hell out as fast as we can...  Feeling
nervous?"

"Yes," Davina admitted.

"I feel permanently nervous.  Do you ever get over the butterflies in
the tummy or is it just the first time it's like this?"

"It's always like the first time," he said, 'because each job is a
one-off.

I'm always scared all the time, every time.  In a way I wouldn't enjoy
it if I wasn't.  "

"But you're not enjoying this," she said.

"Maybe I'm getting a bit past this level of risk," Harrington said.

"I enjoyed New York, because it was a game where you made up your own
rules.  I had my two contacts and I was looking forward to running them.
But this is bullet-in-the-back-of-the-neck stuff.  I'm not too keen on
that.  Sorry.  " He checked himself.

"That was a stupid thing to say to you.  Forget it."

"It doesn't matter," Davina said quietly.

"I know what to expect if anything goes wrong.  It just feels odd, to be
cut off like this.  We know now the date the girl is coming.  And that
we're supposed to leave the same day.  But that's all. We don't know how
or where it's a sort of vacuum.  I find that very' nerve-racking.  I can
cope with things so long as I know what they are. "

"That's because you're not a pro," he said.

"Pros don't want to know the details.  Then if they get caught, they
can't tell them.  I must say, you've been very good.  The only trouble
is, you're too pretty for an East German lady.  Even with your pink
nose."  He smiled at her and patted her knee under the table.

"That's better," he said.

"You haven't smiled much in the last few days.  I wonder how Ivan the
Terrible is getting on with the boys back home?  Spilling his heart out,
do you think?"

"I hope so," Davina answered.

"And I believe he will.  He keeps his promises."

"You gave him a pretty good incentive," Harrington said gently.

"You put yourself up as the collateral."

"I keep thinking about his poor wife," she said slowly.

"It's hard to believe people could be so vile to punish her for
something he did.

A perfectly innocent woman.  "

"It's to punish him," Harrington said.

"Tell me something what happens when you get home?"

"Nothing happens," Davina answered him.

"There's no reason for me to see him again.  And I promised I wouldn't
try."

"Supposing he wants to see you," he persisted.  "I don't think he will."
She gazed past Harrington to wards the blue sea-line.

"He knows there isn't any future for us.  I came into his life and he
came into mine; it was always temporary.  The one thing that matters is
that it ends well.  I'll never regret a moment of it; I want him to feel
the same. And then I can go back to work and get on with real life." She
gave him a little quick smile.

"You don't believe me, do you?" He lit a cigarette and handed it to her.

"Not a word," he said.

"But we won't argue about it.  Seven more days and then the fun begins.
Whatever the fun is.  Come on, the food looks dismal here.  Let's see if
we can get into that fish restaurant the old bag recommended.  Intourist
two-star, Comrade." He paid for his drink and they left the cafe; he
took Davina's arm as they walked down the long promenade together.  In
their old-fashioned holiday clothes, he in baggy grey trousers and
open-necked shirt, she in a cotton dress and sandals, they looked as if
they too belonged to a dead age of twenty years ago, moving through a
world inhabited by ghosts. Volkov patted the seat beside him; he spent
one or two evenings a week with Irina in her apartment.  Every weekend
was spent at his dacha.  He had taken her to the Bolshoi and to a
restaurant afterwards.  He didn't seem to mind that their relationship
was becoming public knowledge. She felt as if he were enjoying the
gossip, flaunting his mastery over the daughter of Ivan Sasanov.

"Sit here, beside me," he said.  She did as he suggested, and he took
her hand and stroked it.

"Why do you want to go to Livadia?  It's such a long way.  Are you
trying to get away from me, dushinka?"  He always called her darling
when he was going to frighten her.

"No, of course I'm not," Irina said.

"It's just that I'm tired; the University closes for the summer next
Tuesday.

I'd like a holiday in the sun."  She said almost boldly, "I thought you
could get me a pass."

"I could," he agreed.

"I can do most things for you.  But I want to know why you need this
holiday so quickly.  Are you studying so hard? Don't tell me I'm
exhausting you;

a lot of loving is good for girls.  "

"I'm working hard," she admitted.

"I think it's worrying about my mother that's made me feel so run down.
It's been a very hard year for me, Antonyii."

"You do look a bit pale," he said.

"Maybe the sun would do you good. Will you feel better if I tell you
your mother hasn't reached Kolyma yet?  " She swung round to him and
seized his hand.

"Oh, Antonyii!  You mean you've they've changed their minds?  Where is
she?"

"In a stop-over camp, about four hundred versts from here.  I managed to
delay her final journey...  by telling the head of our Service you had
agreed to help us, to help us get your father back.  You understood
that, didn't you?  You must persuade him to come back to Russia." She
thanked God he hadn't a hand fondling her breast, as he often did when
they were sitting like this.  Otherwise he would have felt the leap of
terror her heart gave.  She hung her head, hiding the fear in her eyes.
Her voice was low and tremulous.

"I've been thinking about it, every night and day.  But how?  How do I
do it?"

"By going to join him," he said gently.

"By going to the Crimea as your friends have arranged." He didn't look
at her; he lit a cigarette and took his time, drawing on it, puffing out
smoke, snapping the lighter shut.  He didn't need to watch her; he heard
the intake of breath that turned into a gasp, felt her spring up and
leave the sofa.  When he looked up she was standing close to the window.

"What's the matter?"  he asked her lightly.

"Didn't you think I knew all about it?  About your tutor at the
University I've known every move you've made, every thought in your
mind.  I know the lies you've told me.  But I haven't done anything
about them.  I have tried to help your mother, and I've saved you from
being arrested a long time ago. Don't think it was because you slept
with me.  I can have any girl I want.  " Irina turned and slipped the
catch on the window.  It swung open.

"If you jump out," Volkov said, "I'll have Poliakov in the Lubyanka in
an hour.  Instead of holding your mother in a labour camp, I'll have her
brought back too, and questioned...  questioned very hard, like your
tutor friend... and his friends." He didn't move from the sofa; he swung
one leg over the other and moved his foot to and fro.  Irina Sasanova
closed the window. She latched it.  Then she turned round to face him.

"What do you want me to do?"  she said.

"I want you to take your holiday in the Crimea," Volkov answered.

"I'll get you the pass to travel.  I want you to go on meeting your
contact Poliakov.  I want you to do exactly what British Intelligence
tells you.  And at the same time, you will do what I tell you." After a
pause he added, "Come here." She came and he drew her down beside him.
He slid his hand inside her blouse.

"Ah," he said.

"How your heart is beating!  Is it just fear?  Or is it hatred too?  It
doesn't matter.  I'm the only friend you've got.  You'll come to love me
in the end..." Irina found another message in her essay when she
collected it with the other students.  It was taped to the centre page.

"Meet me at the near end of the Ouspenskaya Bridge tonight at nine." She
flushed the scraps of paper down the lavatory and telephoned Volkov from
the public booths in the University central hall.  That evening she took
a bus to the Ouspenskaya Bridge, and at nine o'clock on the warm
summer's evening, she met Alexei Poliakov.  He took her arm, and they
began to walk slowly across the bridge that spanned the wide, yellow
waters of the Moscow River.  Couples were walking along the public
beach; Russian children were allowed to stay up as late as their
parents, and groups were paddling in the water, running races ahead,
their laughter and calls light as bird-song in the evening. Irina had
taken off her sandals; she trod the soft sand in her bare feet, the
shoes swinging from her left hand.  They looked like young lovers
strolling on the beach.  He found a secluded place, a spot half-hidden
by a clump of bushes growing out of a dune of sandy soil. They sat down
together, and he put his arm around her.  Irina closed her eyes and
leaned against him.  His body was warm, his hold on her gentle.

"I love him," her thoughts whispered.

"I love him.  I can't do it."  She straightened herself, and gently
disengaged from him.  At the sight of his face, grave and concerned, the
tears overflowed, and the next second she was in his arms, and they were
kissing frantically, clumsily in their need for each other.  And then
she told him.  They lay huddled together behind the shelter of the
bushes, while the sky grew black above them, the stars came out, and
there was no one left on the beach.

"He knows everything," she whispered.

"About you, and the Crimea, about my father.  And he wants me to do
everything, to pretend to you and the people helping me, while he
watches and manipulates.  I'm to get my father to come back to Russia.
That's all he tells me.  Go to the Crimea, do what the British
Intelligence tells you, and I'll tell you what to do next.  And he's
holding my mother as a hostage.  If I don't do what he wants, she'll go
to Kolyma.  And you'll be arrested. He said, "your tutor friend, and his
friends..."

"She shivered, and Poliakov held her closer.

"What am I to do?  If my father comes back because of me, Volkov will
arrest him and he won't leave you alone when I've done what he wants.
And there's my mother oh, God, sometimes I feel like killing myself"
Don't," the young man begged her, 'don't ever.  say that..."

"I promise you," Irina went on, "I stood by the window in our flat and I
was going to jump.  He knew it; he just said if I did that, he'd have
you in the Lubyanka and bring my mother back for questioning.  He meant
he'd torture you both..." Poliakov stroked her hair and soothed her. His
pale face and dark hair made him look ghostly in the fitful moonlight.
He murmured loving words to her and held her against his heart.  He was
a gentle man by nature, in some ways timid, a creature of the spirit and
the mind who abhorred violence.  He raised Irina's face to his, and
kissed her.

"Get the permit from him," he said.

"Go to Livadia and these people will get you away from Russia.  That's
all you must do.  Don't think about anything else."

"I'm not going to leave you behind," she whispered.

"I'll ask him for two passes.  We can go together.  If he says no, then
I won't go either," she said fiercely.

"He wants my father back!  If I can be brave enough, just once, I'll get
you away too.  No, don't argue with me."  She put her hand to his mouth.
She was stronger than he was, braver by nature.  He loved her all the
more for her courage.  His desire rose at the touch of her fingertips on
his mouth.  He didn't want to argue with her; he wanted to love her, and
carry the memory. He drew her down to him, and under the dark sky they
made love, with the moon as a witness when it slipped out of the clouds.
Two passes.  Antonyii Volkov knew how to watch other people without
seeming to do so.  He found Irina Sasanova more and more interesting as
a subject. His attitude to her had been that of master to puppet; he had
no liking for women outside sex, and if he met one who was clever and
ambitious he resented it.  He blocked the promotion of women in his own
service; their role was to be manipulated by men. Irina seemed ordinary
enough; intelligent, but easy to reduce to frightened obedience when the
skin of modern feminism was stripped away. But she surprised him.  She
surprised him by her resilience; just when he thought her completely
cowed, she found reserves of courage, and came back at him.  Two passes.
He didn't say anything for some minutes.  They were sitting at his
favourite table in the Bear Restaurant, and she was looking prettier
than he had ever seen her.

"Why two passes?  Who is going with you?"  He asked the question at
last.

"My tutor," Irina said.

"AIY lover my lover who showed me what love meant..."  She drank some
other wine, and wished she could have tossed it into Volkov's face.  She
wouldn't have thought it possible to hate Volkov more.  But it seemed
that hate grew in proportion to her love.

"Have you been told to ask for him?"  Volkov said gently.  He smiled
while he waited for the answer.  It was tempting to say yes; she nearly
did so.  But since he knew so much, he might know this was a lie.  The
truth was safer.

"No," she said.

"I'm asking for myself.  I want him to come with me."

"Why?"  he said again.

"Because I don't want him to be arrested," Irina said.  She drank more
wine, and he knew she was nervous.  But still brave.  Courage was in her
eyes.  She loves this poor little intellectual, he thought, and was
angry for a moment.

"Why should I arrest him?  He can't do any harm.  I know all about him
anyway."  He gave a little shrug of contempt.

"You won't leave him free to work against you," Irina said.

"And as he's not very important, I would like you to let him leave
Russia. Please, Antonyii.  I am doing exactly what you want.  Let Alexei
Poliakov go to Livadia with me.  "

"And supposing I say no," he countered.  She put the glass down and sat
back. She hid her hands under the table and gripped them together to
steady them.

"I love him," she said.

"I love him as much as my mother.  I won't go without him." Volkov
signalled the waiter.

"Bring us coffee," he said.

"And some Polish brandy."

"I won't go," she said again.

"I mean it."

"Very well."  Volkov spooned sugar into his coffee.

"Very well, if this little fellow means so much to you he can go too.
Your father must come home, Irina.  That is what matters.  He mustn't be
used against Russia by her enemies.  You can convince him that he won't
be punished, that we understand about his illness and what made him
behave like a criminal lunatic.  He will be treated and rehabilitated
into Soviet society.  And your mother will be with him.  You will be a
family again.

I expect you will leave your friend, Poliakov, in the West when you
return.  "

"I may stay with him," she said.

"But you won't care, so long as my father comes back."

"I shall be sorry to lose you, Irina," Volkov said gently.

"I hate to see Soviet citizens lose their rights and live in exile.  But
you can choose when the time comes.  And I have something for you; you
can show it to your father." She recognized her mother's writing.  She
took the envelope, and he said! "No, don't open it here.  Read it
later."  She put the letter away in her bag.

"Two passes to travel to the Crimea and stay at Livadia," Volkov said.

"For two weeks' holiday, arriving on the 25th.  I'll send them round to
you tomorrow, my dear.  And now, if you'll finish your coffee, we'll go
back to Moscow." They drove back in silence.  He didn't touch her or
even hold her hand. She heard him hum a little popular tune as he
glanced out of the window. The car stopped at her apartment; he leaned
forward and opened the door for her.

"I shan't come in tonight," he said.

"I hope you're not too disappointed.  You'll need money for your trip.
I'll send that with the passes.  Don't forget to read your letter.
Goodnight, dushinka." She stood for a moment on the pavement, as the car
drove off.  Then she used the entrance key; the old de hurnaya was
replaced by a man who guarded the block during the night.  He noted
everyone who came in and out and reported anything unusual to the
police.  Irina went past him, up in the lift and unlocked her flat door.
It was past one in the morning.  She went into the kitchen and poured a
glass of milk.  And she sat at the big table, where her family used to
gather in the evenings with their friends, drinking tea and laughing,
talking, eating arguing sometimes.  With the letter in her hand, she
felt the memories almost materialize out of the air, until the kitchen
was thronged with ghosts. Her father, the hero-figure of her childhood,
the good companion of her adult life. And her mother, so warm and
steadfast, an old-fashioned woman to whom the family was a treasure and
not a burden.  She had grown up with love; and there had been a
different kind of love in that kitchen, the love between good friends.
Jacob Belezky, dark eyes burning behind his glasses; his brave wife, who
supported all the dangerous things he said.  They were all there
crowding round her for a moment, and then as suddenly they disappeared,
and she was alone in the kitchen, seated at the empty table, with her
mother's letter waiting to be opened. The ink had run, as if tears had
fallen on the writing.  The letter was a sheet of paper with a torn
edge; there was no heading, only the date a week earlier.  It rambled
and the handwriting was irregular and untidy, as if the person writing
were very old.  It spoke of her sufferings without describing them. That
agony would be inflicted by the reader's imagination.  It begged for
help, for relief.  It reminded the daughter and the husband of their
responsibility, of their ability to save her. Fear and anguish ran into
each other, making some sentences difficult to read.  It was a dreadful,
abject piece of moral blackmail, and Irina Sasanova knew that her mother
would never have written it freely. She didn't cry; she folded it and
put it back in its envelope and finished her milk.  That would bring her
father back; Volkov had known exactly how to blend the ingredients in
that letter.  But he didn't know the meaning of that signature'your wife
and little mother' Don't believe anything if I say "little mother" .  It
will be a lie.  " Fedya had warned her in that last interview, seeing
what might lie ahead.

"I would like to kill him," Irina murmured to herself.

"I would like to ask him to come here, and stab him while he's sleeping.
I'd like to give him poison, so that he could die in agony."  She washed
up the glass, switched out the light and went into her parents' room.
She paused, looking at the bed.  Volkov had defiled it.  He had abused
her and humiliated her where her mother and father had made love.  She
closed the door and went to her own room. In five days she would be in
the Crimea, and Alexei Poliakov would be with her.  five days.  At last
she fell asleep. It was six in the morning, and the sun was up; the
birds' bright chorus had quietened as the dawn became full day.  It was
possible to pull the curtains back and switch off the lights.  The
conference room was fogged with cigarette smoke, the men sitting in a
group at one end of the table looked haggard and stale.  Sasanov had a
heap of papers in front of him and an ashtray full of half-smoked
cigarettes.  There was a tray with empty coffee cups and a tepid pot,
pushed to one side. Grant and the Brigadier and Kidson flanked the
Russian.

"There is your Mole," Sasanov said.

"And we have sent him into Russia," James White spoke slowly, coldly. He
turned to look at Grant.

"This is your failure," he said.

"He was never properly investigated." Grant's sallow skin flushed.

"His background was impeccable," he said.

"I only did what seemed reasonable.  We had no indication that he was
suspect."

"You had every reason," Sasanov barked at him.

"The signs were all' there you didn't look!  What are you going to do,
Brigadier, to save Vina and my daughter?" There was a moment's silence,
then Kidson interposed quietly, "If your theory is right, your daughter
will be arrested as she tries to leave and the bona-fide British agent
will be held as hostage against your extradition. Volkov will then have
a full hand of cards to play against us and a strong lever to force you
to go back voluntarily. According to your reading of the situation he
will be certainly promoted to the top job when Keremov retires in
December.  "

"And our traitor will come back and burrow underground again," the
Brigadier said.

"Except that we've flushed him out.  I would like to get him back and
invite him down here for a country weekend."  He looked hard at Sasanov.

"How will Volkov arrange the finale?"

"How?  I'm not sure, but he will gather them all into his net in the
Crimea. He is a man who likes to play with people.  "

"How many are likely to be taken into his confidence?"  Grant asked.

"Does he work in close co-operation with his superiors?  How much does
he confide in his subordinates?"  He was watching Sasanov closely. The
Russian frowned.

"He works as secretly as he dares," he said.

"In that way he can take risks, and cover them if he fails.  He hates
sharing information, because he has to share the credit."  He paused.

"His subordinates will know nothing; they act on his orders.  His plan
will be kept secret from everyone."

"Including the Mole?"  Kidson asked. Sasanov nodded.

"The Mole will get instructions.  That's all."  Again there was silence.
He raised his head and looked at the Brigadier.

"Why did you let Vina go to Russia?" James White gazed blandly back at
him.

"She asked to go.  She insisted on it.  She said it was the only way you
would believe we were genuinely trying to get your daughter out."

"That isn't why you sent her," Sasanov said.

"You had another reason."

"Not exactly a reason," James White admitted.

"Just a very vague idea at the back of my mind.  Which has proved right,
as it turns out.  You see, she was the one way, we could send Harrington
out without arousing suspicion.  She was trying to help him, to get him
back into active service again.  It seemed to fit in rather well." They
were all staring at the Brigadier.  He yawned.

"Could we get some hot coffee, Kidson?  Keep us all awake a bit longer?"
Kidson got up from the table, took the tray and went out.

"It's very interesting," the Brigadier went on, 'because the pattern was
rather obvious.  You didn't see it.  Colonel Sasanov recognized it;

I just had a funny feeling.  Harring ton has been a member of the Firm
since the fifties.  A good chap, with a very good record.  But never
spectacular; just a reliable man who could turn his hand to a spot of
real trouble if he had to.  And then he begins to drink and slack in New
York, and the two contacts he goes on about are one East German plant,
obvious to anybody, and a Rumanian with very little to offer us.  So he
gets himself talked about and then recalled.  At just the right moment.
When you are in England, and the Russians can't find out anything about
you.  And he meets Davina, by accident on purpose; he's heard the gossip
that she's your "minder" but that doesn't help him unless he can find
out where you're being hidden.  She can't be followed, because she's
under our surveillance whenever she goes out.  And she won't tell him
anything.  All those transcripts of interviews with her prove that. He
can't bug the car because the car is regularly serviced and checked. So
he sets up the very simple and very clever meeting that ends in Jules'
Bar, with the telephone call he knew she'd have to make.  To Halldale
Manor.  "

"And sticks a monitor on the dial," Grant murmured.

"That was ingenious.  It gave him the telephone number she'd called.  So
a Centre assassin is activated to identify Davina and" make certain. The
fire-bomb follows.  "

"It had to be the telephone," Sasanov said.

"I read and read the evidence, and I knew there was something.  I know
the type of monitor. It leaves a little adhesive behind it, because it
won't magnetize on plastic. The telephone in that bar was plastic.
Otherwise we wouldn't have found any evidence at all.  " He rested his
head in his hands for a moment.

"Volkov thought they had killed me in the fire," he said.

"But he wasn't sure.  He had my wife arrested and my daughter watched.
They would find the connection between your Embassy and the lecturer and
when it went on he guessed I was alive.  So he seduced my daughter,
hoping the news would get back to me.  Then Harrington heard from Davina
again and Volkov knew for certain I had escaped.  Everything you briefed
Harrington on was sent back to Volkov.  The plan for Irina's escape, the
appointment of that other man Spencer-Barr.  Volkov knew it all. And
now Harrington is in Livadia with Vina, waiting to betray them as soon
as Irina arrives.  How much of the plan for their escape does he know? "

"Nothing," Grant said.

"They are being told by stages;

it's safer.  That's our only consolation at this point.  You realize
that apart from your daughter and Miss. Graham, Volkov will be able to
force confessions from the lecturer and his associates?  Our whole
network among the activists for human rights will be exposed and
eliminated not to mention Frieda and her people in East Berlin.  This
will be a major Intelligence disaster for the West, and a tremendous
boost for Volkov's chances of getting the top KGB post.  We've got to
take immediate action.  "

"Volkov will hold Vina and my daughter," Sasanov said.

"As well as my wife.  He will offer to release them and return Vina in
exchange for me.  He knows me well; he knows I love my wife and how I
will feel about what he's done to my daughter.  And he will soon
discover how much Vina means to me.  You must agree, Brigadier.  You
must send me back.  I'll give you everything I can, but if you fail, and
they are taken, you must promise Vina will be exchanged for me?" White
considered him for a moment, and then at last he nodded.

"Very well; I promise.  I may have trouble with our Home Secretary, but
if he believes it's voluntary...  The moment your wife and daughter are
released and Miss. Graham is handed over you will be escorted to the
other side.  On one condition."

"What is that?"  Sasanov asked.

"That you carry a cyanide capsule and kill yourself the minute they lay
hands on you.  Have some more coffee?"

"Thank you," Sasanov said.

"That won't be difficult.  Without my family and Vina, I don't want to
be alive."

"I think our questions about Sasanov have just been answered," the
Brigadier said.  He and Grant were sitting in Kidson's room; they had
bathed and eaten breakfast.  Grant looked greener than usual after the
night without sleep, but James White was pink-cheeked and refreshed. His
energy amazed Kidson, who had never seen him tire.

"The tension, the debriefing that he turned into a tour- deforce," the
Brigadier went on.

"All signs of inner conflict, just as you said, John.  But not because
he was playing a part.  He was telling us everything he could think of,
because he was in love with Miss. Graham. And she was some kind of
hostage to Fate, with his daughter.  The more he betrayed his country
and his old loyalties, the safer he felt they would be. Curious, isn't
it?  "

"Curious how a sophisticated man of his intelligence could react like a
primitive," Grant remarked.

"It just proves how deeply superstitious the Russian character is."

"Not just the Russians," Kidson said.

"Propitiating the gods is common to all human beings.  The pagan comes
out in different ways in different people."

"I can't quite see it in myself," Grant retorted.

"Or in you..." James White said, "And who'd have thought Davina Graham
could'have such an effect on a man?  I never imagined Sasanov cared a
damn about her. Do you understand it' John

"No, I never thought she was attractive," Kidson said.

"But then I never really knew her, did I?  None of us did.  But the fact
is there is a man who doesn't want to live without her.  Obviously,
Chief, we'll have to change our plans regarding the escape route. Thanks
to Harrington every move we've made is known.  The KGB are just waiting
to scoop up Irina Sasanova and Davina Graham.  How Harrington plays it
remains to be seen.  The point at issue is this: if anything happens to
those two women, Sasanov is going to give himself up and commit suicide.
Which leaves us with the most important political situation since the
Berlin Wall went up: Soviet plans for oil dominance in the Gulf, and
ultimately a nuclear strike against the United States. And nobody to
monitor and interpret for us from the inside.  We've got to have Sasanov
going every step of the way with us. And that means we've got to make
sure of at least one of those women getting back here.  What do you
suggest, Grant?  This is really your department.  "

"I suggest," Grant said slowly, 'that we halve the risk.  We don't
proceed with the original plan for escape via the Crimea.  We get the
Daughter out via Poland, for instance, and then through East Germany.
We've an excellent network in East Berlin itself.  That'll have to be
disbanded immediately afterwards.  In the meantime we allow Miss. Graham
and Harrington to think the original scheme is going ahead.  They wait
in Livadia, and Volkov waits for the girl to arrive there and for
Harrington to make his move.  By which time, she should be on her way to
the West.  The Embassy can fix her up with the necessary papers, and
they won't be looking for her because she's expected to take the other
route.  "

"And how do you think Volkov will react when she doesn't turn up in
Livadia?" the Brigadier asked. Grant pursed his thin lips.

"That depends on whether he decides to arrest Miss. Graham and blow
Harrington's cover by doing so.  Personally I don't think he'll do that.
Once Sasanov's got his daughter, holding Miss. Graham isn't going to
count for all that much.  But one has to take that chance.  What do you
think, Chief?"

"I think we should do as you say; halve the risk.  Make sure of one,
anyway. Go ahead with the new arrangements, Humphrey, will you?  And you
reassure Sasanov, John.  We've got an afternoon session and our Langley
cousin will be breathing down our necks fairly soon." White paused and
said, "I suppose we'll have to tell them we've got a leak? It'll cause a
terrible fuss about our security again, but we dare not withhold the
truth in case everything blows up in our faces and we have to lose
Sasanov.  We don't have to tell them it's a homebred traitor. Besides,
we've got a little bone to pick with them ourselves, when their man
comes over tomorrow night.  Grant, send a telex through to Langley, will
you?"

"How brave is she?" Poliakov didn't hesitate.

"I think she's very brave.  Only a brave girl would have asked for a
pass for me.  And got one from Volkov."

"Good enough," Spencer-Barr said.

"You're sure she'll go through with this?"

"I think she would be glad to," the tutor said.  He drew himself up
slightly.

"But it won't be necessary.  I've made my own plans for Volkov.  He
placed a hand on his pocket.  Spencer-Barr's surprise only made him look
supercilious.

"You've made plans?  What are you talking about and what's in that
pocket?"

"A knife," Poliakov said.

"I am not going to Livadia; I am going to Volkov's office this afternoon
and I will kill him.  Then Irina will be able to get away.  She has her
pass;

she can take the plane tonight.  After I've killed him, I will stab
myself.  "

"I see," Jeremy said.

"You've got it all planned.  A grand heroic gesture?" Poliakov reddened
at the mockery.

"You can sneer if you like.  But I shall do it."

"I'm sure you would," Spencer-Barr said.

"Except that you'd be searched before you got within a mile of Volkov's
office, and nobody sees him alone.  He has a bodyguard with him.  It was
a brave idea, but I assure you, this kind of thing is better left to the
professionals. You give this to Irina and tell her to get Volkov round-
just before she leaves.  She must tell him it's very urgent, make any
excuse but get him to the apartment.  And he must be out of there before
an hour at the latest after he's taken the stuff.  " He passed a twist
of paper to Alexei.

"Put that in your wallet," he said.

"And for God's sake be careful. It's tasteless and colourless; it
dissolves in about two seconds.  And it takes effect about an hour
later.  The symptoms make it look like heart-failure.  " Alexei put the
paper twist in his pocket book.

"I understand," he said.

"Now you've got the rest of the plan clear, haven't you?" Spencer-Ban-
sounded impatient.

"There's a shuttle to Sim feropol at seven this evening.  You meet Irina
at the airport and you fly out.  You can spend the night there and get
the morning bus to Livadia.  When you're in Livadia you contact Heinz
Fleischer at the Livadia Castle Intourist Hotel.  You go there in the
morning as soon as you arrive.  He is there with a woman, they're
supposed to be East Germans, but he speaks Russian.  They're expecting
Irina, so she'd better make the call.  She must use the name Trudi.  Is
that all clear?"

"Perfectly," Alexei said.

"I remember everything.  And when we make contact with these two people,
I give your message."

"That's right," Jeremy said grimly.

"Tell them the departure plans and what I've told you.  You can trust
them.

I can't do more to help you than that there isn't time.  Your one chance
is to get away over the weekend before the KGB start collating Volkov's
information. They'll be busy covering up his death for the first
twenty-four hours. They don't like people to know the KGB is mortal.
Especially at his rank. You've got a good chance," he said harshly, 'but
not if you bungle anything!"

"We won't bungle it," Poliakov said.

"I know what we have to do and we'll do it." Right, "Jeremy said
briskly.

"Be at the airport and ready to go.  After that it's up to you.  Good
luck." They didn't shake hands, although they were the only people in
the science room of the Museum of Soviet Science.  Poliakov watched the
Englishman walk down the long hall, his steps echoing on the marble
floor, and turn out of the exit.  He had a purposeful walk and a
swinging, athletic step.  Alexei thought how much he hated him.  He made
the tutor feel inadequate just by looking at him.  He was not strong
enough or clever enough to know how to kill Irina's tormentor.  He was
to sneak to the airport and wait for her like a little dog.  He could
only be trusted with messages.  That was one part of his instructions he
was going to ignore.  He left the building a few minutes later. The
American observer from the CIA at Langley arrived at Heathrow and was
driven straight to Hampshire.  Humphrey Grant was waiting to meet him.
He entertained him to dinner with the rest of the team debriefing
Sasanov, and afterwards took him aside in private.  The American was a
quiet-spoken Southerner in his mid-fifties; he had worked under Bush but
had been retired during the purge of the early seventies.  He had been
brought back when the effects of a demoralized Intelligence Service,
hampered by legislation, resulted in the debacle in Iran.

"I'm looking forward to sitting-in tomorrow," he said.

"We start at nine-thirty," Grant said.

"You've got a detailed report to refer to, haven't you?  How has your
service analysed the information so far?"

"We think it's primary information," came the answer.

"We're treating it at Presidential level.  I'm glad to have the
opportunity to absorb it at first hand.  We are naturally very concerned
about this leak." There was a hint of rebuke which Grant had been
expecting.  He was ready for it. He said frostily, "Besides Ivan
Sasanov, there's another matter my Chief wanted me to discuss with
you...  before you sit in on tomorrow's session."

"My pleasure," the CIA official said courteously.  He was on guard like
a fencer, his charming manners the foil on the rapier.  Grant assumed
his infuriating schoolmaster attitude, head poked a little forward,
hands clasped behind his back.

"I would like to discuss one of our operatives with you," he said.

"In strictest confidence, of course.  He spent some time in the United
States...  A Mrjeremy Spencer Barr Does the name mean anything to you?"
Antonyii Volkov smiled at Irina when she opened the door.  He saw her
expression alter as his driver stepped forward to come into the flat
with him.

"You don't mind Yuri, do you?"  he inquired.  He went past her into the
little sitting-room.  Irina hurried after him; the big bodyguard loomed
behind her.

"We're in the kitchen," she murmured to Volkov.

"I've got the samovar nice and hot for some tea." He went on smiling at
her.

"Thank you," he said.

"And where is your little tutor in the kitchen too?"

"Yes," she said.

"Yes, he's there.  Waiting for you..." Volkov took off his cap and the
driver stepped forward and took it from him.

"Before we sit down at the table together," he said pleasantly "I want
you to tell me something.  Yuri - go into the kitchen.  I shall come in
a minute. Now, Irina, why this urgent message?  Why did you want to see
me today so badly?"  He caught her chin between his fingers and raised
her face; the fingers pinched tighter and tighter until she winced.

"Because he doesn't believe you'll let him go," she said.

"He won't come with me unless you tell him to."

"What a stupid young idiot," Volkov said mildly.

"Any man in his right mind would want to go to Livadia with you...  And
then to England. Because you are going to England.  Did-you read your
mother's letter?  " He saw the hatred glimmer in her eyes, like sheet-
lightning before the first thunderclap.

"Yes, I read it."

"And how do you think your father will feel when he reads it?"

"He'll come home," she said.

"He'll come home to get her released."

"And you'll be able to convince him that it's a genuine letter, won't
you after all, you've seen your mother in prison, haven't you?  He'll
know that everything she's written is the truth.  And of course you'll
do your best to persuade him." He was waiting for an answer.  Courage
blazed up in Irina Sasanova.

"I won't have to; my father won't let my mother suffer on his account.
He'll come back because he'll want to kill you!  " To her amazement
Volkov burst out laughing.

"You're a real little firebrand what a pity I have to lose you!  Come
along, I want to see this poor rabbit of a tutor; you'll eat him alive,
my dear. What you need is a strong man like myself." She saw the desire
in his eyes and cursed herself for showing spirit. Resistance from her
aroused him more now than when she was cowed and frightened.  He mustn't
stay, Alexei had warned.  He must leave the flat within an hour after he
had drunk the tea.  She turned away from him and hurried to the door.

"You won't say that when you meet him," she challenged. Poliakov got up
when they came in.  The samovar stood in the middle of the kitchen
table.  There was a bottle of vodka, salt, lemon, sweet cakes to be
eaten with the tea, and dishes of pickles to neutralize the vodka. The
driver lurked in a corner, arms at his sides, staring inwards towards
them.  For a moment Volkov and the tutor faced each other. Volkov calmly
examined him.

"You are just a boy," he said.

"No wonder my Irina wants to protect you.  Let's sit down, shall we?"
Poliakov pulled out a seat and managed to knock over a glass.  He
apologized, and wiped the sweat from his pale face with his
shirt-sleeve.  Volkov watched him with a slight smile; he pointed to a
place next to him and said to Irina! "You come beside me."

"What would you like?"  she asked him.

"Tea or vodka?"

"You have prepared a feast for me," he remarked.

"I think I will have a cigarette first.  But you help yourselves." Irina
poured tea for herself and handed a cup to Poliakov.  She didn't dare to
look at him.

"I understand that you're hesitating about going to Livadia," Volkov
said to Alexei.

"After all the trouble Irina took to get you a pass," he chided.

"Why don't you Vvant to go with her?  Aren't you being very ungracious?"
Alexei sipped his hot tea, and coughed, turning red as it burnt his
mouth. It was a moment or two before he could answer.

"Excuse me, Comrade General, I burnt myself.  No, please, don't think I
don't want to go to Livadia; it's a wonderful change to have a holiday
and to get a pass to go with Irina...  I don't know how to thank you."
He was running the words together in his nervousness.

"Then why am I here?"  Volkov inquired.

"I was told you were afraid to go.  Afraid I'd go back on my promise to
let you take a little trip together.  Isn't that so?"

"Yes," Poliakov admitted.

"Yes, I was worried about it.  Irina tried to convince me, but I
couldn't believe..."  He hesitated.

"Go on," Volkov prompted.

"Nothing annoys me except when I'm told lies.  Tell the truth my boy.
Always tell me the truth."

"I thought you'd have me arrested," the tutor mumbled.

"I didn't see why you should let me go." Irina had poured a glass of tea
for him, a slice of lemon floated in it. It came to rest in front of him
and Volkov glanced sideways at her.  The tea was clear as the glass
containing it.  The powder had dissolved instantly.

"The cakes are good," she said.

"I made them."

"They look good," Volkov remarked.

"Did you know, they tried to poison Rasputin with cakes?  They put
enough cyanide in them to kill ten men. He ate them all and nothing
happened.  Why don't you have a cake, my dear?  "

"I will," she said. Volkov put the glass down without drinking anything.
He stubbed out his cigarette and pushed back his chair.

"I'll answer your question," he said to Alexei.

"I will let you go with Irina because she is doing something for me. You
are her reward.  if that's what she wants."  He turned to her and said,
"Now we will excuse ourselves.  We shall say our goodbyes in private."
He caught her by the arm and pulled her to her feet.

"Antonyii - she began.

"Antonyii, please" I left my office early to be with you," he said.

"I'm not going to waste my time." He was asleep when Poliakov stabbed
him.  Irina pressed both hands to her mouth to stifle the scream that
would have woken him and the tutor plunged the knife into his back,
pulled it out and drove it in a second time.  Volkov gurgled into the
pillow; his body heaved and twitched as his punctured heart flooded and
stopped. Irina rolled away from him as blood began to run down his naked
back onto the sheets.  She stood naked and trembling all over,
whimpering with shock.  The tutor came to her and gathered her in his
arms.  He was shaking.

"Get dressed," he said.

"Hurry, my darling, and get dressed."

"The guard," she cried out.

"What about the guard?" Poliakov said quietly, "I gave him the tea. He's
unconscious.  He'll be dead soon.  As dead as that pig.  Did he hurt
you?" The tears welled up and spilled down her face.  She cried in his
arms for a moment.

"No," she said.

"No...  Oh, Alexei, Alexei, how could you do it?  I never thought you
could do such a thing.  Oh, God, what are we to do now?"

"Leave here," he said.  He bent and dragged a red soaked sheet over
Volkov's body.

"Don't look at that," he said.

"Put your clothes on and get your case.  Hurry." When she came into the
kitchen, she gasped.  Poliakov was dressed in the driver's uniform.  The
coat hung big upon his narrow frame.

"I've got my own things on underneath," he said.

"We'll take his car. We'll drive to the bus terminal and leave it
somewhere.  Then we'll catch the flight to Simferopol.  You look faint-
you are all right?  "

"I'm all right," Irina said.  She saw the driver's legs sticking out
behind the kitchen table, and looked quickly away.

"They won't be found for a day or two," she said.

"It's Friday...  He went to his dacha on Fridays."

"We'll be out of Russia before they look for him here," Poliakov said.

"I'll lock this door and the bedroom.  Come on, let's go now!" The old
dez.  huma.  ya peered at the lift as it came to rest on the ground
floor.  She settled back in her seat when she saw the KGB uniform, and
the girl who was the KGB General's mistress.  It didn't do to seem
curious about her now; she was too well-established.  The old woman
showed how tactful she was by closing her eyes and pretending to be
asleep. Forty-five minutes later Volkov's car was driven down a side
street at the back of a warehouse.  There Poliakov stripped off the
uniform and the heavy boots, and hid them under the seat.  He took Irina
by the arm, and carried her suitcase.  They walked to the bus depot and
boarded the bus to Vnukovo airport.  An hour and a half later, their
passes and documents stamped, they climbed up the stairway to the
Tupolev jet making the scheduled twice-daily flight to the Crimea.
Jeremy Spencer-Barr had got two seats for the evening performance of the
Bolshoi Ballet that Friday.  The programme was Prokofiev's Romeo and
Juliet, danced by the prima ballerina, Maya Plisetskaya.  Jeremy had
invited his secretary to go with him and he was back in his Embassy flat
in the compound by Kutuzovsky Prospekt, getting changed for the evening,
when his door bell rang.  He scowled, wondering who had decided to drop
in without being invited.  He hated casual callers. He pulled on his
jacket and opened his front door.  The principal Trade Secretary and the
Head of Chancery were standing there.

"Good evening," Jeremy said.

"Do come in."  He wasn't the type to be caught off-balance.  He looked
politely, but inquiringly at each of them.

"I'm afraid I'm going to the theatre in about fifteen minutes," he said.

"What can I do for you?"

"We want to have a talk to you," the senior Intelligence Officer said.

"I've got tickets for the Bolshoi," Jeremy said.

"I'm taking my secretary.  If we're not in our seats when the curtain
goes up, we won't get in till the interval."  He looked annoyed.

"Sit down, Spencer-Barr," the Head of Chancery said.

"We had a top-priority telex from your Chief in London.  You're
suspended from all Embassy duties." He couldn't hide the shock; for once
his composure deserted him; his mouth opened and he gaped at them.

"Suspended?  What on earth do you mean?"

"We mean," the Intelligence Officer said grimly, 'that you're off the
case. When did you have your last contact with Daniel?  " Jeremy
hesitated.

"It's gone wrong," he thought in panic, 'they messed it up.  "

"Yesterday," he said.

"I gave him the message as instructed."

"You gave him something else, didn't you?"  The Head of Chancery was
leaving his subordinate to ask the questions.  He merely listened,
watching Spencer-Barr with a chill dislike.

"You didn't pass London's message on to Daniel, did you?  I'd ring up
your secretary and tell her you've got a sudden temperature.  Summer flu
she'll believe you.  I'm afraid you won't be going to the ballet
tonight." Jeremy looked from one to the other.

"Very well," he said.

"I'll phone.  Can I ask one question first?"

"Depends what it is," his interrogator said.

"Has anything happened to Antonyii Volkov?"

"Not that we would know," the answer was curt.

"If Daniel did what you told him, it'll be kept very quiet indeed.  Make
the call." Spencer-Barr dialled through to the girl's number.  He made
his excuses and hung up before she could do more than say how sorry she
was he was ill.  Then he turned back to the two Embassy men.

"I'll get you a drink.  What would you like, sir?"  he asked the Head of
Chancery.

"Scotch and water."

"I'll have the same," the Intelligence Officer volunteered. Jeremy
poured the drinks and handed one to each of them.  His manner was cool,
even supercilious.  He sat down and crossed one leg over the other.

"Well, gentlemen," he said.

"What is it you want to know?" This time it was the Head of Chancery who
spoke.

"How long have you been working for the CIA?" The submarine attached to
the NATO naval base had sailed down through the Bosphorus to the coastal
port of Midia.  On the night of the 24th the craft submerged and left
her moorings for the open sea.  Her captain maintained a steady course
at mid-depth; among the normal complement were three SAS commandos,
specially trained in underwater combat; the officer in charge was a
first-class yachtsman, and the submarine carried a very special piece of
equipment.  This consisted of a fibre-glass hull that could be assembled
in sections to a span of twenty feet, complete with collapsible
masthead, and a small, petrol-driven outboard motor. There were six
inflatable life-jackets and an inflatable raft for emergencies.  The
commandos were equipped with small-arms.  The captain was a former
Polaris commander, who had been posted to Turkey after his tour of duty
in the Atlantic was over. He had sealed orders which were broken only
after they had submerged. He read them in his cabin.  They gave him a
specific destination and a time to reach it, surface, disgorge his
special cargo and go below to wait.  The orders stated that the
commandos were to return exactly on schedule; the submarine was to take
them on board and return to base immediately.  The young commando
captain had his orders; the last part tallied exactly with those issued
to the commander of the submarine. His mission was to pick up three
passengers in the port of Sebastopol and return with them to the
rendezvous point.  If they had not appeared within a waiting-time of
fifteen minutes, he was to raise anchor and move off. Davina looked at
her watch; it had a luminous dial, and the date showed as the 25th.  The
time was four a.  m.  It was the time Sasanov used to wake when they
were in the Shepherds Bush flat, and his spirits were at their lowest.
Often she felt his disquiet even in her sleep and stirred beside him,
waking in sympathy.  She thought of him more during the silent hours
before dawn, when Peter Harring- ton snored on his own side of the bed
and she huddled away from him.  He had made no more attempts to sleep
with her since they left West Berlin.  He joked and flirted as usual,
but he was tense and the falsity showed.  He had become very nervous as
the 25th approached. He often drank a lot at dinner now and fell quickly
asleep. She stretched, crossing her arms behind her head and thought of
Sasanov with her body as much as her mind.  She longed for him in those
sleepless hours, remembering the power of his love-making, the need for
her which made up in passion what it lacked in subtlety.  She would
never want a subtle, premeditated love-making; Sasanov had spoiled her
for anything but his own brand of bold desire.  She wanted him so badly
that she couldn't rest and the man beside her was an irritant.  Then
commonsense rebuked her for permitting sensual fantasies that would
never materialize again.  She wouldn't see Sasanov when she returned
to England.  It was over.  The goodbye said in that squalid safe flat
had been their real farewell to each other.  Then the temptation
whispered that perhaps when he met his daughter, he would want to thank
her, see her just once more.  And he'd said something in Russian to her
and murmured! "I'll say it to you in English when you come back."  But
whatever it was, she wouldn't hear it from him.  There had to be a break
and she had promised herself and the Chief that she would make it. There
was no future for her with Sasanov.  He would make his life with his
daughter and wait in hope for his wife's release.  Better to have loved
and lost, than never to have loved at all.  The cliche came to mind to
torment her.  She had never loved before she met him.  The realization
sobered her; love for him was more than the ache in her body for his
body, far more than the feeling she had had for the man she'd been ready
to marry. She hadn't loved Richard in any way as she loved Ivan Sasanov,
and had loved him for months before they became lovers. She'd concealed
it from herself, hiding behind her professionalism, her indifference to
men after that one brutal disappointment.  Only when she took him home
to Marchwood, and saw her sister setting out to charm, then the pretence
fell away and she suffered the worst pangs of jealousy.  And because she
loved him she was lying awake in an Intourist hotel on a highly
dangerous mission in the middle of Russia. She hadn't manoeuvred herself
into this to convince Sasanov that her Department was genuine.  She
hadn't placed herself at risk to back up his interrogators and round off
her role for the Brigadier.  She hadn't really given a damn about any of
that.  She had gone to Russia because she couldn't bear to see Sasanov
suffering on account of his family. She had gone because she wanted him
to be happy, and because his happiness was more precious to her than her
own.  And this was what love meant.  What he had meant when he dismissed
her sister with the simple sentence, "She only takes from a man.  I
needed a woman who gives." Davina eased herself up on the pillow.  She
thought suddenly, "I don't hate Charley any more.  I can forgive Charley
because she took something away that wasn't worth having.  She left me
free to find the real man. Poor Charley. With all her beauty and
success, I don't think she's ever felt what I feel now...  or ever will.
I feel quite sorry for her." Davina slid over the edge of the bed and
onto the floor.  She wanted a cigarette and to be alone, away from the
sound of harrington's breathing. Above all she didn't want him to wake
and intrude.  She found her dressing-gown and slipped into it.  The
night was very warm. She groped on the dressing-table and found the
cigarettes and Harrington's lighter.  Then she opened the window very
quietly, and stepped out onto the narrow balcony.  There was a
three-quarter moon and the view across to the shore and the sea was
black and silver;

there were little regiments of waves advancing to the beach, crested
with white foam.  She could hear the soft hiss as they drew the sand and
pebbles with them.  A few lights glimmered from the street lamps
immediately below. There was no sound but the gentle fall of the waves,
and the moonlight fell on the black surface of the sea in a bright
silver swathe that vanished on the horizon.  She lit the cigarette and
leaned against the window.  Once when she was a child, the family had
been on holiday in Cornwall and they had all gone for a swim in the
darkness.  She had swum out on a swathe of moonlight and imagined how
easy it would be to swim for ever in the silver sea.  She remembered her
father coming alongside and telling her sharply to go back; she had swum
out too far for safety. And then Davina saw the ship; it had crept round
a headland and appeared on the dark sea glittering with tiny lights. She
watched it moving very slowly, seeming to be almost stationary, until it
reached the moonlit sea lane, and its lights were challenged.  It was
not a big ship and not very far out.  It was gliding onward, making for
the port. It must be one of the cruise ships run by Intourist, returning
from a trip round the coast.

"Davina?  Is that you?" She turned and the light in the bedroom flashed
on.  Harrington was sitting up in the bed.  He looked tousled and
bleary-eyed.

"What the hell are you doing out there?"

"I couldn't sleep," she said.  She came into the room, and rubbed the
cigarette out in the tin ashtray.

"I didn't want to wake you so I went onto the balcony.  It's a gorgeous
night.  I was watching a ship come in."

"Oh?"  He got up, pulling his pyjamas into place.

"Let's have a look." He went to the balcony and stepped out.

"It's a cruise ship," he said.  He came back inside and pulled the
curtains back.  He fumbled for the cigarettes and snapped his lighter
irritably till it flamed.  He glanced across at her, puffing on the
cigarette.

"You know what I think?"  Davina shook her head.

"I think that's our escape route."

"The ship?"

"Yes; I just had a feeling, seeing it come in like that...  right on
time." He went back to the window and stared out.

"They'd never get her out overland," he said quietly; it was almost as
if he were talking to himself.

"Even with all the documentation.  There wouldn't be time before the
alarm went off...  It must be the sea." He turned back to Davina.

"Across the sea to Turkey and then by air to England.  Courtesy of NATO.
That must be it.  Why haven't they told us the route?"  He turned back
to the window, pulling on the cigarette until the tip glowed crimson.

"Why didn't I think of that before?"

"Does it matter?"  Davina asked him.

"You seem worried by the idea..  if you're right, surely it's safer than
trying to get her out overland?" She watched him, frowning; his body was
stiff with tension, angled against the window-frame and the tiny beacon
of cigarette-end was trembling in an unsteady hand.

"They'd never get her out overland."  .  Her mind was trained to pick up
nuances; eight months of living with Sasanov had honed her instincts
razor-sharp.  Surely, we'd never get her out.  But he'd said 'they' as
if he were talking about the opposition.  She had a quickening of alarm.
It was only a slip of the tongue; not to be taken seriously.  He'd
started to drink in the last few days; that worried her more.  It showed
that the strain was telling on him.  And he had to be sober and alert
for what was coming.  If he was right and their escape was planned by
sea.  She went to the window and joined him.  There was no sign of the
ship; the port itself was invisible from their balcony. To her surprise
he dropped his arm round her shoulders and pulled her close to him.

"I'm getting old for this sort of thing," he said.

"You're a brave girl, Davy; you wouldn't care to give an old yellowbelly
a bit of home comfort, would you?" Davina pulled his arm away.

"No," she said.

"I wouldn't.  Don't start that again, Peter?"

"Why not?"  he demanded.

"I'm not that bloody unattractive, am I?  I've slept in the same bed
with you for ten days, and I've been a very good boy.  You can't deny
that."

"I'm not denying it," she said quietly.

"But I'm not in love with you, and I'm not going to bed with you.  So
why don't we just get some sleep?" He threw his cigarette through the
open window; the butt end made a tiny bright arc as it fell.

"Would you believe me," he said slowly, 'if I said I was in love with
you? Would that make any difference?  " His hair was on end; in the
garish electric light he looked tired and dispirited.  He paused by the
dressing-table and picked the warm butt of her cigarette out of the
ashtray. He looked at it and dropped it on the floor.  Davina came over
to him;

she hooked her hand through his arm.

"You're not in love with me," she said gently.

"I'm just here, that's all.  We've got less than twenty-four hours to
go. Let's hope you're right, and that ship is going to get us away.  Why
don't you go back to sleep for a couple of hours?  It's nearly five
now."

"What about you?"  he asked.

"I'm going to go out for a walk," she answered.

"You don't have to," he mumbled.

"I'll behave myself- promise." On an impulse of pity, she bent down and
kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"I know that," she said.

"I won't sleep now anyway, and the fresh air will be nice.  I'll see you
at breakfast."  She gathered her clothes, hesitated for a moment and
then said! "I'll change in the bathroom. You turn off the light and go
to sleep.  " She let herself out of the room. Harrington didn't get back
into the bed.  His heart was jumping and he found it difficult to
breathe.  He switched off the bedside light and stationed himself by the
balcony.  He could see down to the street below.  Her figure came into
view, turning right to walk along the road that led to the sea-shore.
She didn't look up at the hotel.  He stayed still, watching her until
the bend in the road hid her.  He stepped back into the room, tripped
over the little ledge, and swore.  He was still unsteady on his feet. He
switched the light on and went to the table. His lighter and cigarettes
lay there, with a crumpled ten rouble note and a few loose coins.  And
his pocket book was beside them.  The butt in the ashtray had been warm;
that meant she had taken a cigarette, used his lighter.  What else had
she touched while he was asleep?  It was the German-made wallet that had
been given him by the department.  It didn't have a secret compartment
as his own did. He kept it in his back pocket, buttoned in securely
during the day and hid it in his drawer at night under his clothes.  But
not last night. Last night he had got drunk, and forgotten his routine.
He had fallen into bed and snored like a hog, while the pocket book lay
on the table for anyone to find.  If she had turned curious, or
suspicious.  He tried to still his trembling hands as he opened it and
fumbled with the inner compartment. It was still there. Relief changed
to panic, and because he was so frightened he became drunkenly furious
with Davina.  She might have seen it. She might have discovered what he
really was.  That kiss would be the touch of Judas, just to quieten him.
He called her a bitch out loud, while the alcohol set his nerves into a
frantic jangle and played havoc with his reasoning.  He'd asked her to
sleep with him because he was lonely and not sober, because he needed
warmth and comfort in the guise of sex. She wouldn't have him. Either
because she didn't want him, or because she had been spying, prying. He
held the pocket book in sweating hands.  One side of him liked her,
found her attractive, had bought her a wildly expensive present in a
sentimental moment when he could forget what he was going to do to her
at the end. And then the idea came to him, and the sheer cunning
delighted him.  It seemed a piece of brilliant ingenuity.  And irony
too.  It would serve her right for rejecting him. Serve her right for
being on the other side.  He found nail scissors and a needle already
threaded in her little sewing-kit in her drawer.  The threaded needle
was a bonus; he couldn't have got the bloody thing into focus to do it
himself.  He spent five minutes with the scissors and another five with
the needle, concentrating fiercely.  Then he put everything back in her
drawer.  He went along the passage to the bathroom and washed his head
and face in cold water to sober himself up. It was almost five-thirty
when he came down in his shirt and trousers and stockinged feet to the
foyer of the hotel below.  The desk where the telephone was kept was in
semidarkness, although it was dawn outside. Harrington switched on the
light and picked up the receiver. The ring was transmitted to the
receptionist's room on the ground floor; she woke at once and aroused
her husband.  They came across the hall together, converging in menace
on the man sitting in her seat with the telephone in his hand.  The
husband rushed towards him.

"What are you doing?  Put that down how dare you sneak in here!"
Harrington said a few rapid words to him in Russian. The man turned to
his wife; she clutched his arm in fright.  For a moment they both stared
at him.  Then they stammered apologies and hurried back to their room.
The operator answered.

"Moscow," Harrington said.  Then he gave the number.  The operator
recognized the first three digits of the special code.  She connected
him at once. All telephone calls prefixed by the digits 669 were
transmitted immediately to the KGB offices on Dzerzinsky Street.  The
night-duty operators on the switchboard put the calls through to the
duty officer in each section; Harrington's call at 5.  30 in the morning
went to Volkov's Internal Security section, and was relayed by the duty
officer onto tape.  By 8. 30 on the Saturday morning, Volkov's principal
deputy was in the office and the tape was played over for him.  The
message was coded. The first two words indicated it was top priority and
the next pair that it was intended for Antonyii Volkov.  The deputy was
the young officer Tatischev, who had accompanied his chief to the
mortuary when Fedya Sasanova identified the body sent from Britain.  He
could not decode the message without Volkov's special key, which was
kept locked up in Volkov's private office security-box.  This box could
only be opened by two keys used in unison; one was in the office and the
other was kept by Volkov himself. Tatischev put through a call to his
superior's dacha.  He was used to the secretive way in which the Comrade
General worked; he had served him for seven years and had learned not to
ask questions.  There was nothing he could do about the message from
Livadia, in spite of its top-priority urgent prefix, except trace
Antonyii Volkov.  By twenty minutes to nine, he learned from the
caretaker that the Comrade General had not come down to Zhukova as usual
on Friday night. He might arrive that morning.  Tatischev put a call
through to his apartment. It rang for some time; Volkov's driver Yuri
did duty as batman and servant. He should have answered the telephone.
Tatischev swore to himself. No answer from the apartment.  That probably
meant that they were already on their way to Zhukova.  He booked a
second call into the dacha in an hour's time, and settled down to some
desk work. In the hostel in Yalta, Irina and Alexei slept in each
other's arms;

she had been silent on the flight, numbed with the shock of what had
happened.  Every time she closed her eyes she saw Volkov's body and the
spreading bloodstains on the bed.  Poliakov seemed to know instinctively
how to comfort her.  He held her hand firmly, ordered vodka from the
hostess, and whispered to her to bear up.  They were going on a holiday;
she must appear cheerful.  You never knew who might be on the plane and
watching.  She had always been the stronger in moments of crisis; now he
was in command.  The one and only act of violence in his life had given
him stature.  He had found the courage to save the situation when
everything went wrong; killing Volkov had paid for Irina's misery, and
thrown the Englishman's contempt back in his face.  He was a man in the
real sense;

a brave man who had taken decisions and saved them both.  He felt
exhilarated and bold.  And Irina was content to be protected.  Content
to be loved by him and to face the future with him.  They had spent a
passionate night and promised each other a lifetime of love.  She had no
dreams; it seemed when she woke that there had never been a Volkov, only
the new, confident Alexei Poliakov, who had turned out to be a hero.
They caught the first bus to Livadia.  It was a glorious hot morning;

the sun hung in a brilliant sky, round and glistening like a golden
coin, the lush plants and palm-trees made them feel as if they had left
Russia for some tropical paradise.  They walked away from the terminal,
hand in hand, with their cases, and passers-by winked at them, thinking
they must be on honeymoon. Davina had walked for a long time, long
enough to see the dawn flush on the horizon and the splendour of the
sunrise. There was not another human being on the beaches or the
streets.  She could have been the only person in the world.  She had
always liked solitude; sometimes she wondered whether it was because she
had no choice.  She had been a lonely child, always wandering off by
herself. Until she met Sasanov she had never lived in close proximity to
anyone. Night and day, weeks turning into months, getting closer and
closer to him, and incredibly she had never once been bored.  She walked
along the silvery beaches by the edge of the sea, and felt as if there
was a mysterious communication between them, fostered by the country he
loved so much.  He would never see Russia again but the loneliness of
the exile would be bearable with his daughter beside him and the hope of
his wife's exchange. Hope was the lubricant of life.  She had to hope
that they would escape, that Harrington's hunch about the ship was
right, and she had seen their rescuer sailing across the silver
moon-path on the sea that morning. What would her own life be, when she
got back?  She couldn't run away from the reality of loving Ivan
Sasanov.  It had to be faced, and once accepted, she would come to
terms.  Loneliness again; a special kind, as if a hole had been punched
through and her heart had fallen out;

the hunger that kept her awake at night.  They were the price for what
she was doing, and that price had been agreed before she went.

"You must understand that you can never see him again..  James White,
with his quiet ultimatum;

the steely face of Grant.

"You've made a fool of yourself and it can't go on."  And her own
acceptance "I know that.  I know it's finished as far as we're
concerned.  All I ask is that you'll let me go out and bring his
daughter back."  The bargain had been struck and there was no going
back. She had signed the document.  She had her work; not a major
career, her affair with Sasanov had finished that.  But enough to
interest her and give her independence.  And she had the memory of those
eight months and the moment when he turned to her in the garden at
Marchwood and said, "I don't want your sister."  She didn't mean to cry;
the salt breeze dried the tears and her cheeks felt stiff.  She'd slept
badly and her nerves were tightening in anticipation of the day.  Even
Harrington was tense, drinking heavily. He had changed since they left
England.  Not just when he was playing the part of Heinz Fleischer and
doing it superbly.  But when they were alone, the easy banter had a
hollow ring to it; temper lurked under the surface.  He had seemed upset
by the cruise ship, as if in some way its appearance had cheated him.
They'll never get her out overland.  She stopped suddenly, whilst a wave
sneaked up and ran over her feet.  They it was such an odd word to use
about himself and her. There was a prick in her mind, like a tiny thorn
embedded under the skin. She dismissed it and went on walking till it
was time to go back to the hotel and meet him for breakfast. As she
turned to go through the door, a young man stepped aside to let her go
first.  He had a girl with him;

she had blonde hair and was attractive in a simple way.  They both
carried cases.

"Thank you," Davina said in Russian.  She had picked up a few basic
words. He nodded to her and smiled.  She went through ahead of them;
Irina and Alexei Poliakov followed.  They went to the reception desk.

"Excuse me," the young man spoke to the woman at the desk.  She looked
up and said sharply, "This hotel is not for Russians.  You ought to know
that."

"I do," he said quickly.

"But we are looking for a Herr Fleischer -please, it's important.  Is he
here now?" She remembered the phone call and the sharp exchange from the
East German. Even though any contact with Western tourists was
forbidden, and discouraged even among Eastern bloc communists, she dared
not turn the couple away.

"Yes," she said hurriedly.

"He's here.  His wife just came in; she's gone through to the
restaurant. Table nine." Irina nudged him.

"We'll go through," she said.

"If that's all right."

"Perfectly all right," the woman said sullenly.  She turned away from
them. Peter Harrington came down the stairs as they walked into the
dining-room. They came to the table where Davina was sitting.

"Frau Fleischer?"  Alexei Poliakov said softly.  Harrington saw them and
stooped in mid-stride.  He was staring at the girl.  The blonde daughter
of Ivan Sasanov.  With an unscheduled man.  The pause was only for a
second.  He reached the table just as Davina was taking the girl by the
hand.

"We weren't expecting you," Peter Harrington said.

"I don't know how this will affect our plans." He didn't see Irina
Sasanova stiffen angrily.  He was talking to Poliakov as they walked
along the beach.  They had drunk coffee and made conversation in the
dining- room of the hotel; Harrington had suggested a walk in the open
air where they could speak freely.  Alexei Poliakov couldn't help
turning red.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I was told I could come with Irina."

"I wasn't leaving without him," she said. She spoke poor German out of
courtesy to Davina.  Harrington rattled on in Russian.  He looked tense
and irritable;

the arrival of the young man seemed to have disturbed him out of all
proportion.

"We are still waiting for the final details of our escape plan," he
said.

"I hope they confirm your story.  Otherwise, I'm afraid you'll have to
stay behind!" Irina put her hand on Davina's arm, to slow her down. They
dropped behind the two men.  She had felt immediate sympathy with the
older woman from the moment they came face to face in the hotel.
Harrington's open hostility to Alexei had put her on her guard at once.

"Is he in charge of the escape?"  she murmured to Davina.

"Yes, he is," she answered.

"Why is he so suspicious of Alexei?  Of course the British know he is
going with us!  Why is this man making so much trouble about it?"

"Probably because he wasn't told," Davina said.

"And I think he's rather on edge till we're safely on our way.  Don't
take any notice;

it'll be all right.  I just wish we had the final instructions.  " Irina
slowed her steps to increase the gap between them and the two in front.

"We have them," she said quietly. Davina stopped.

"You do?  But why didn't you say so?"

"Alexei was going to," she said.

"But this man is being so hostile with him I can tell you, can't I?  Do
you understand me?  My German isn't very good" I can understand
perfectly," Davina said quickly.

"Don't worry about mistakes.  Just tell me what we've got to do."

"We take tickets for the Alexander Nevsky cruise this afternoon," Irina
said in a low voice.

"It goes round the coast and stops at Sebastopol this evening.  There is
a dinner and a dance on board for the passengers.  We have to slip away
and get to the marina where the sailing-boats are; a sailing- boat with
the Polish flag flying, and three men on board, will be anchored just
outside.  They will send a boat to take us on board.  I have to wave a
coloured handkerchief at them as the signal."

"Oh God," Davina said, 'it sounds desperately chancy.  What happens if
they're not there or we're late?  Why couldn't we go to Sebastopol by
road?  "

"Because we don't have passes," Irina explained.

"You can't travel freely in Russia.  You have to get permission to leave
the holiday resort.  The cruise ship is the only way."

"Well, we'll just have to get it right," Davina said.  She looked at the
girl and said gently, "You're very like your father."

"You know him?"

"Yes," Davina said.

"I know him...  Any news of your mother?  He's been so anxious for you
both Irina hung her head.

"I have a letter from her," she said.

"She was made to write it.  I don't know whether to give it to him or
not."

"Think about it when you get there," Davina said.  Harrington turned
round, frowning.

"Come on, catch up.  What are you dawdling about for?" Irina caught hold
of Davina's arm.

"There's something else," she whispered quickly.

"We have to warn you that the KGB have an informer. They know why we're
here.  They know my father sent for me.  " Davina felt as if the ground
had dropped away under her feet.  She turned to the Russian girl in
horror, every vestige of colour draining away till she was sickly grey
under the tan. What?  You mean they know?  "

"Yes," Irina whispered.

"The man at the Embassy told Alexei to warn you.  They don't know who it
is; but he can't have told them about the cruise ship because only
Alexei and me and the Embassy man know we're going that way." Davina
made herself walk on; Harrington was slowing down to let them catch up
with him.  Spencer-Barr was the man at the Embassy.  Spencer Barr whom
Peter Harrington had never trusted.  And he had warned about a spy, a
spy keeping the KGB posted on the whole plan.  She felt as if she might
be physically sick.

"He's dead," Irina whispered.  She gave Davina a triumphant look.

"Alexei killed him."

"Killed who?"  Davina stared at her.

"Who's dead?"

"Volkov," the girl answered.

"General Volkov of the KGB.  He was my father's boss.  He had my mother
arrested and he made me sleep with him.  He is letting me escape so I
can persuade my father to come back and give himself up in exchange for
my mother.  Alexei stabbed him.  He was so brave," she said, and her
face glowed.

"I never thought he could do such a thing.  He poisoned the bodyguard
too.

"That man is not going to leave him behind," she added fiercely.

"Oh God," Davina said, 'what a dreadful thing did you see it?  Did you
see him do it?  "

"I was in bed with Volkov," the girl said.

"Alexei came into the bedroom and stabbed him.  He was very sadistic;

he liked to hurt people.  He always hurt me when we went to bed.  They
won't be found for a day or two; he went to his dacha at the weekends.
He'll be missed on Monday, and by then we'll be away.  " Davina
disengaged her arm.

"I've got to talk to him."  She nodded towards Peter Harrington.

"You go and wander round with Alexei;

there's a cafe near the Livadia Palace it has a green canopy and tables
outside.  Meet us there in half an hour.  Peter!  Wait a minute, will
you?  " She reached the two men and Irina spoke rapidly to Poliakov in
Russian. They turned and walked away.  Harrington swung round to Davina.

"What's all this about?  Why did you send them off on their own? They're
not supposed to go out of our sight!  What are you playing at? What was
that girl saying to you, back there where I couldn't hear?  " It was as
if she were face to face with a stranger.  He loomed over her, his face
contorted with anger.

"I don't know what those bloody fools in London are playing at," he said
furiously.

"They lumber us with this boy-friend of hers, just on Spencer-Barr's
authority; how do we know he's genuine?  He could be a bloody plant, for
all we know and they use him to pass the details of our exit!  Why not
communicate direct with us?"

"He's told you then," Davina said slowly.

"Yes," Harrington sounded impatient.

"We catch the cruise ship, go to Sebastopol and then get ourselves in
place for a pick-up by yacht. Exactly as I said this morning.  We're
going out by sea.  There'll be a sub waiting to take us on board.
Personally I think it's a bloody chancy operation.  Too much margin for
error.  What was she saying to you?  "

"Much the same," Davina answered.

"Her German's very bad." They began to walk slowly onward.  It was
becoming very hot, and the sands shimmered like diamond-dust under their
feet.  The beach was filling up with sunbathers;

children played on the fringe of the sea, and a group of young men
were playing ball, laughing and falling about in the water. She walked
on beside him, and he said casually, "They shouldn't have gone off
alone.  We should keep them in sight till we get on that ship."

"And that was all?"  She asked the question without looking at him.

"Just the plans for getting away from here?"

"What else?"  he countered.

"I just hope he's got it right.  We'd better make our way to that cafe.
I don't want to lose them."

"We won't lose them," she said.

"They'll be there." He slipped his hand through her arm.

"Sorry I shouted," he said.

"I just don't like surprises when the operation is as tight as this one.
"

"That's all right," Davina murmured.  They walked on slowly.

"Well' - he sounded as if he were making an effort to be cheerful'we'll
be on our way by this evening.  I wonder how many yachts we'll find
flying the Polish flag?"

"You don't think we're going to get away, do you?"  Dav ina asked
suddenly. He doesn't want to frighten me, she said to herself.  That's
why he's not telling me about the KGB informer; of course that's the
reason.

"The one thing that worries me is Poliakov," he said.

"Why should we believe he's genuine?  All we've got is his word for it
and Spencer-Barr, poking his nose in.  I never trusted that little
bastard."

"I know," Davina said.

"You said so before.  Tell me, truthfully, Peter do you suspect him of
working for the Russians?  Is that what you think?"

"He could be," he muttered.

"And so could that boy.  Sent along to keep an eye on us and give the
signal when we're nicely compromised, boarding that Polish yacht." She
didn't answer; she walked with her head down, wanting to pull her arm
away from him.

"That's terrifying," she said slowly.

"Is that what can happen?"

"That's how they'll do it," he answered grimly.

"Set a trap and catch us red-handed escaping.  I don't want to frighten
you, but it's better to face facts."

"Yes," she said.

"It is.  I'm glad you told me.  What time is it?" He looked at his
watch.

"Twelve-ten," he said.

"Time to meet them." She managed to free herself from him; he had
quickened his pace and she was able to glance sideways at him.  Peter
Harrington, the colleague of fifteen years, the cheery, rather pathetic
figure who wandered round the office corridors and propped up the bar in
the local pub.  A funny man, rather like a naughty boy surprised by
middle age; always good for a laugh and able to enlist sympathy at the
same time.  Likable and trustworthy; even his half-hearted attempts to
sleep with her were endearing.  He hadn't withheld the truth because he
didn't want to frighten her.  He had frightened her with a lie instead.
She felt herself begin to shake; panic threatened her as it had never
done in her life, so that she wanted to turn and run, blindly.  But
there was nowhere to run to; only the golden beach and the sunshine and
the crowds of Russians and tourists enjoying themselves.  And Peter
Harrington striding on beside her.  He was trying.  to throw suspicion
on the young man; on Spencer-Barr, who had sent the warning.  He didn't
know that Poliakov had killed the KGB general; he was lying about him to
Davina to discredit anything he said or did.  He was lying about
everything.  She saw them sitting at a table in the cafe, shaded by the
green canopy.  They were close together holding hands.

"You stick close to her," Harrington said suddenly.

"I want to take him off and have a private talk before we get on that
ship together. After lunch; okay?  "

"What time does the cruise ship leave?"  Davina asked him.  She had to
clear her throat before she could speak naturally.

"Five o'clock," he said.

"I think we should go back to the hotel for lunch.  I'll book the
tickets for the cruise."

"All right," Davina said.  She came to the table where Alexei and Irina
were sitting.  She pulled out a chair and sat down very quickly because
her legs were weak.  She managed to smile at them both and say to Irina
in German! "Have you had a nice walk?"

"Yes," she replied.

"It's so beautiful here.  My mother and father used to come for
holidays." Then Peter Harrington leaned close to her and said, his voice
full of concern, "Tell me what news of your mother?" Davina sat back,
guessing at the conversation; seeing Irina's eyes swim with tears.  In
the middle of it, she turned to Davina and explained in German.

"We talk of my mother.  I have this letter from her." Davina saw
Harrington take the letter and slip it into his jacket pocket.  He
explained in a whisper, "Safer for me to carry it.  If anything goes
wrong, it mustn't be found on her."  She saw him reach out and squeeze
the girl's hand; Poliakov was listening to them and nodding.  He gazed
at the girl with adoration.  He had killed the loathsome Volkov; he
looked like a poet. At his whisper Irina wiped her wet eyes and made
herself smile.  Though she didn't understand their words, there was a
tenderness between them that moved Davina profoundly.  And the sincerity
of Irina Sasanova and Alexei Poliakov pointed up the falsity of the man
sitting opposite them. The false kindness, the false sympathy; she was
watching a performance as calculated as the assumption of his East
German identity.  He had taken off one mask and donned another; she felt
sick as she watched him. The KGB had an informer; everything they
planned was known, except the means of their escape.  And now Harrington
knew  the plan; Harrington had the compromising letter from Sasanov's
wife; Harrington was -going to book the tickets for the cruise ship.
Harrington, who had made the tiny slip of saying'they' when he talked
about his own operation.  Harrington who had lied to her, whose nerve
was fraying while they waited because he had no information to pass on.
He was hostile to the young man because he had reckoned on dealing with
two women both of whom trusted him completely.  And he was going to take
the tutor away, to have a private talk.  Predictably, he wouldn't come
back, and they would have to board the ship without him.  She shivered;

cold sweat broke out on her body and the panic threatened her again.

"You all right?"  He was bending towards her, kind, fond old Peter
Harrington; his hand came to rest on her arm.

"You look a bit seedy.  " She managed to smile at him, a tight little
smile that hurt her dry lips.

"Just nerves," she said.

"I'll be glad when we're on our way."

"We all will," he said.

"Let's go back to the hotel and eat there.  No point in drifting around
till five o'clock.  You'll feel better after lunch," he said to Davina.
They got the bus back to the hotel.  In the foyer she excused herself.

"I couldn't face food," she said.

"I'll go and lie down for a bit.

I'll feel better if I sleep.  " She saw them move into the dining-room
and took the lift up to the room on the second floor. She washed her
face in ice-cold water, changed out of her clammy dress. She sat on the
edge of the bed and lit a cigarette.  Her hand was steadier. She had to
think it out, carefully and coolly, marshalling every fact. This was the
way she had been taught to think, to analyse.  Her reactions outside had
been hysterical because suspicions came at her like shrapnel, flying in
at tangents, striking in different directions at once.  If that slip of
the tongue was right, Harrington was speaking from the other side when
he said'they'.  Accusing Spencer-Barr of treason while he suppressed the
Russian's warning about the real danger only confirmed her first view.
She closed her eyes, concentrating.  How circumstantial was their
meeting, all those months ago in the office in London?  How deliberate
the playing upon her sympathy, the joking questions about Ivan Sasanov?
How convenient had been his recall from New York, after a publicized
lapse into drinking too much?  There was a dreadful pattern emerging
even as she remembered their meetings, some by chance, others arranged
by him. He had become seedy, unreliable, after twenty years of active
service and good reputation.  He had got himself recalled after
Sasanov's defection.  And he had latched on to her because he knew she
was the Russian's minder. Those were the facts and the circumstantial
evidence;

they damned him even without the instinctive knowledge of his deception.
That had come to her so strongly that morning that she had almost lost
control of herself.  She had seen him as a liar, as much as heard him.
Seen him play-acting with the two young Russians, pretending to be
sympathetic, hiding his hostility to Poliakov after his lapse when the
young man took him by surprise.  His solicitude for her was false too;
he was poised like an animal, ready for anything to happen.  The
suspicion had become certainty; he was the enemy, had always been the
enemy.  He was the Mole who had sent the fire-bomb assassin to Hall-
dale Manor.  Sasanov had warned her that such a man existed.  a traitor
within the service.  Worst of all, she had involved him in the escape
plan, and, unsuspecting, the Brigadier had agreed that he should go. She
put out the cigarette and began to search his clothes and belongings.
Her crash course at the so-called language school had included where to
look for bugs, microfilm and weapons masquerading as tubes of
toothpaste, brushes, pens and pencils, suitcases, shoes with hollow
heels. She worked very quickly and found nothing.  She stood in the
middle of the room and looked around her.  He had no weapon of any kind;
not even a tiny signal transmitter, such as could be fitted into a
lighter and had a range of over a hundred miles.  Was it possible she
was mistaken that her suspicions were hysterical?  And then, lying on
the chest of drawers, she saw the expensive Hermes leather bag he had
bought for her in West Berlin. Major Tatischev didn't know what to do.
General Volkov had not gone to his dacha, and there was no reply from
his Moscow apartment.  He had not notified his secretary or Tatischev of
a change of plan.  The top-priority message was locked away, unanswered.
By noon, Tatischev decided to go round to the apartment himself.  He
took a man skilled in lock-picking with him.  A few minutes inside the
place assured him that his Chief had not spent the night there; more
puzzling, his razor and toothbrush were still in the bathroom, and his
dressing-gown hung behind the door.  The valet Yun's things were still
in his room.  He returned to his office feeling very uneasy.  The
General's car was not in the garage; he had left his office early the
previous afternoon and not phoned in since. Tatischev sent for his
secretary and fortunately the young man was found at home spending a
long day in bed with his girlfriend.  He came to the office soon after
one-thirty, looking very apprehensive.  He's afraid, Tatischev thought;

so am I.  We all live in fear of making a mistake.  He stared at the
secretary, whose adam's apple went up and down in his throat as he tried
to swallow.

"You say the Comrade General left early in the afternoon?"

"Yes, Major.  About three o'clock."

"He didn't say where he was going?  No, I see...  Did he indicate that
he would come back or go to the country?  You don't think he said
anything. Hmm.  He had no appointment for that afternoon; he just left
the office?" The secretary swallowed hard again.  The nervous trick was
beginning to madden Tatischev.

"I think he had a telephone call," the young man said nervously.  He
never dared discuss his superior's private life with anyone, not even
the girl he lived with.  He wouldn't have said a word about the call
except that the Major was becoming suspicious of his answers.

"What call?"  Tatischev shouted at him.

"You idiot!

"Why didn't you say so before?  Who telephoned him?"

"I don't like to say," the secretary stammered.

"It was private.  The General wouldn't want me to discuss..."

"The General is missing!"  Tatischev yelled at him.

"I'll take the responsibility; who phoned him?  "

"A girl," the secretary said.

"He gave me a number to call if he was there and needed in an emergency.
I never had to use it."  While Tatischev was ringing the number and the
telephone shrilled unanswered in Irina's flat, the address was traced.
At about the same time the civil police had summoned up enough courage
to take action about the car with its KGB number-plate which was
blocking a side street near the Somoyonov airport.  Their call through
to the transport section in the Dzerzinsky Street complex did not get
channelled through to Tatischev in time.  He was standing outside the
front door of Irina Sasanova's apartment, bullying the old caretaker
because she was fumbling with the master key. He knew as soon as he
stepped inside that the place was not empty. There was a heavy silence
that he recognized;

he had seen many men die and many dead men.  He had brought two security
guards with him.  He heard one of them shout from the kitchen as he
himself broke open the bedroom door and saw the outline of a body
covered by a blood-soaked sheet.  General Antonyii Volkov's uniform was
neatly folded on a chair, with his boots standing like sentries
underneath it.  An hour later, when the security guards had cordoned off
the building and the street, and the two bodies were spirited away
through the service entrance at the back, Tatischev went through the
pockets of the General's jacket and found the key that opened the
special box to the decoder.

"You sit out in the gardens," Harrington said to Irina.

"I'll go up and see if she's all right."

"She did look very pale," Poliakov remarked.

"I hope she's not sick with anything."

"Just travel sickness," Harrington quipped automatically;

neither of them laughed.  Dour buggers, he murmured to himself as he
left them.  Russians had no sense of the ridiculous.  Not that he felt
exactly humorous himself. Out of sight his expression became grim; he
made his way to the reception desk and walked round it to the inside. He
spoke quickly and very softly to the receptionist, who immediately
showed him into the inner office where the private telephone was kept,
and went out closing the door.  Harrington sat down and picked up the
receiver.  There had been no message for him.  It was nearly nine hours
since he had sent his message to Volkov.  He had not expected a reply
direct to the hotel before late morning.  He reminded himself that it
was a weekend and Volkov would certainly be out of the city. It would
take a little time to reach him.  His intuition that early morning as he
watched the cruise ship coming into harbour would have alerted his
Moscow chief to the possibility of an escape by sea.  Some precautions
would have already been taken.  But he should have been contacted, his
message acknowledged.  He was frowning and the frown became a scowl as
he dialled the code number and delivered a second message.  The diary he
had used as a key for British Intelligence communication had a double
function.  The message he spoke into the Moscow recorder was given the
double prefix of most urgent, top priority.  Decoded it gave full
details of the plan to get Irina and her companion out of Russia by
means of slipping the cruise ship at Sebastopol and being taken off by a
yacht flying Polish colours. Security services in Sebastopol were to be
alerted, and the two women and the male Russian were to be arrested as
they attempted to go ashore. He himself must be allowed to escape and
keep the rendezvous. He requested urgent and immediate confirmation that
the message had been received and the plan put into operation.  He gave
his code name and ended with the call-sign.  He pushed open the door,
nodded briefly to the scared woman behind the reception desk.  He had no
intention of going upstairs to Davina; he'd decided during lunch that
his idea of taking Poliakov aside and handing him over to the local
militia, or else killing him, was a solution born of panic. The
unexpected had unnerved him; he had seen a Spencer-Barr agent in the
young man, with his convenient cover story of being Irina Sasanova's
friend.  His reaction had been bad; he admitted that.  The nerves were
ragged, unsettled by his resumption of alcohol, but only in the short
term.  He had been falling asleep drunk, and waking with the shakes, his
heart thudding against his chest wall like a battering-ram.  That was
how he'd woken at dawn that morning, to find the bed empty and Davina
standing out on the balcony in her nightdress, watching the cruise ship.
And his pocket book lying on the table. He had been terrified and angry,
still drunk as he joined her in the moonlight, and the finely tuned
intelligence had acted independently of the vodka in his brain, and said
"That's how they'll get her out. By sea, on a ship like that one.
Probably on that ship.  " The same intelligence had made use of the
Hermes bag.  Thank God for his sharp instinct.  If you could thank God
for a thing like that.  Thank God for the love-sickness afflicting the
two young Russians; that couldn't be manufactured or taught at Moscow
Centre; not even where men learned the language of counterfeit emotions,
just as they did at Langley in Washington and Langham Place in London.
Alexei Poliakov was no British agent, sent by the loathed Spencer Barr
He was exactly what he said he was; the girl's lover, running away to
the West with her.  Harrington had only to see them together to know it
was the truth. He didn't have to worry about Poliakov.  Volkov's Crimean
henchmen would deal with him.  as he had promised to deal with the KGB
informer, when the young man whispered Jeremy's warning.

"Don't worry," he had said the tough professional straight out of a
second-rate spy film- "I'll know what to do about him."  And the poor
fool had believed him and offered his idiotic help.

"Please, call on me I'm braver than I look I could kill a man..."  And
Harrington had pressed his thin shoulder and said, "Of course you
could." He paused in the foyer.  Upstairs was Davina, his excuse for
gaining time to make the call.  Her nerves were giving out; no criticism
of her, he said to himself.  She was brave enough, and cool.  Old,
hardened pros like himself got sick when the eleventh hour approached.
Love was her motive, too.  Like the girl and the youth with his poet's
face. He didn't want to think about Davina.  He needed to be alone, to
sit for a few stolen minutes in the golden Russian sunshine, surrounded
by the beauty of the garden.  Russians knew how to make houses and
gardens beautiful; they knew how to take a pleasure resort like Yalta
with its reputation for healing the sick rich of the old order, and turn
it into a paradise for ordinary Russians.  A place where the humble
worker could afford the benefits of a health spa; where families could
take their holidays and gape at the splendours of dead men's palaces,
now turned into museums or converted to sanatoria for their use.
Provided they got the official passes entitling them to go there, and
the permits to travel.  No society was perfect, Harrington reminded
himself.  It didn't matter, being cynical.  He couldn't help himself. He
had to have a private joke at the expense of everything, sacred as well
as profane.  He found a garden chair under a tree and moved it into the
sunshine.  He sat with his eyes closed, face upturned to the sun.
Fifteen years of work with James White's service; five years of treason.
It had happened so gradually, while he was stationed in West Germany.
The contact was light as feather-down at first, a mere whisper from the
enemy.  His motives were honest to start with; he inclined his ear to
the whisper intending to pass its message back to London.  And then he
had delayed.  The contact was a West German, a journalist he had known
and liked for many years.  The theme was corruption; everyone had his
hand out and was taking something for himself.  The Cold War was over;
but the Departments kept the Intelligence war going to keep themselves
in jobs; the men at the top were setting themselves up for retirement
with numbered accounts in Switzerland, while the field-workers plugged
on and were pensioned off with sixpence at the end. Money was to be
made.  It was time Harrington thought about himself and his own future.
He remembered it, sunning himself in the hotel garden.  He very
seldom examined his motives or allowed himself to think back to the days
when he was straight.  The suggestion had been cleverly timed.  He had
no prospect of real promotion; his work was stale and his bank account
tended to show up in red.  He was bored and afflicted with the
restlessness of middle-age, when the hair starts coming away on the comb
and sex is once a week.  He dabbled, very carefully at first, allowing
himself to be firmly propositioned.  The money was disproportionate to
the effort.  He took it, and the slope to serious treachery was only a
gentle incline.  They didn't need to blackmail him; Harrington was
honest enough to dismiss that as an excuse.  He had begun to enjoy being
a double.  His Swiss account grew and his skill was being really tested;
feelings of inferiority and resentments buried over the years began to
exact vengeance on his colleagues. He made crude jokes about Humphrey
Grant in public, and presented himself as a buffoon, well past his best.
He took the UN job and set up a front with the Rumanian and the East
German, while he passed to the latter highly confidential information
about Anglo-American Intelligence within the United Nations countries.
He was told to get drunk and seem to slip, to get himself recalled to
London.  He had found drinking all too easy; the habit had taken a hold
before he realized that it was an issue separate to following
instructions.  He had waited for weeks to bump into Davina Graham.  And
everything she did helped his pursuit of Ivan Sasanov for the KGB.
Taking him with her was the final irony, the humeure mire that appealed
to his sense of a malevolent Fate manipulating men.  It was a shame it
had to be Davina. He opened his eyes and rubbed them; for a moment his
vision swam black and gold after the sunlight. He blinked at his watch;
it was 3.  45. One hour and a quarter before the cruise ship sailed.  No
message had come from Moscow.  No acknowledgement of his two messages.
He shrugged off fear; if they made a balls-up from their end it wasn't
his fault.  It wouldn't be his fault if he had to go to the captain of
the ship and show him his authority to stop Davina and the others going
ashore.  And he'd need that authority at sea.  The captain wouldn't
unquestioningly accept his word as had the receptionist and her husband
in the hotel. He got up and went inside;

he paused at the desk and looked inquiringly at the woman.  She shook
her head.  Nothing.  He called Antonyii Volkov a crude obscenity.  And
then he saw Davina coming in from the garden with Irina and Alexei
Poliakov. Tatischev was in his office with the decoded first message on
the desk when the second call from the Crimea was decoded and put in
front of him.  The first had alarmed him enough; the urgency and
openness of the second, demanding the arrest of three people, all
referred to by code names, was impossible to implement without breaking
into Volkov's safe and reading his files.  He dared not take the
responsibility.  He put an urgent call through to Volkov's superior, the
Chairman of the Committee for State Security, in his magnificent dacha
in the Usovo complex reserved for the members of the Politburo; General
Igor Kaledin, who would not now appoint Antonyii Volkov as his successor
as head of the KGB. It was some time before Kaledin returned the Moscow
call.  He had been taking his ease on the reserved beach, dozing like a
tortoise in the sun, when he was told there was a very urgent call from
Volkov's assistant Major Tatischev.  The Major chewed a cigarette until
the tobacco stung his mouth and he spat the pieces into the ashtray.  He
was frantically watching the time as he waited.  Kaledin was old; he
couldn't hurry back to the dacha.  It was over half an hour before
Tatischev was able to speak to him.  He blurted out his account of the
discovery of Volkov's body in Irina Sasanova's flat. Yes, yes, he
stuttered, the security police were already searching for her.

A full report was being got ready and would be sent by despatch rider to
him at Usovo.  But the two messages from Livadia were marked top
priority and already the time limit had elapsed; he didn't know whether
to carry out the orders requested, and he had no knowledge of the agent
signing himself Danton. On his end of the line Igor Kaledin hesitated.
He knew who Danton was;

the Mole working in SIS Personnel in London, the Mole activated to find
and pinpoint Sasanov for assassination.  According to Volkov he had
succeeded and the traitor had died in the fire at Halldale Manor. Danton
was on the cruise ship.  And he would have the last resort weapon issued
to all officers of the KGB.  He hesitated, but only for a moment. Power
shrouded him like an invisible mantle, a power so immense that only the
occupant of Lenin's chair in the Politburo could countermand his orders.
The messages referred to the Daughter, a male companion and a British
agent who would be on the cruise ship Alexander Nevsky, bound for an
evening stop at Sebastopol.  Without access to Volkov's private records,
there was no way of knowing who they were.

"You say the cruise ship has left Yalta?  Yes; radio an order to the
ship's captain.  Tell him to act immediately when requested by a member
of the State Security Service who is a passenger on the ship.  And no
one is to be allowed to leave the ship at Sebastopol until the officer
makes himself known.  Open General Volkov's private safe and have his
files ready for inspection.  I am coming back to deal with this myself.
One more thing.  " He let a pause develop, whilst Tatischev sweated
blood for fear he had done something wrong.

"One more thing, Major. Take all necessary action to maintain security
over General Volkov's murder. Remove all witnesses.  There must be no
scandal.  When Irina Sasanova is found, have her brought to the office
so that I can question her myself He hung up, and Tatischev slammed down
the receiver.  He grabbed the bunch of keys on their silver key-ring,
the keys he had seen Volkov use and which never left his possession.
Each was numbered.  He rushed through to the General's private offices
where his safe was kept.

"What am I going to do?"  Davina whispered the question to herself.

"How am I going to stop him?"

The bedroom was stiflingly hot, the afternoon temperature was climbing
into the eighties, and she had been walking up and down as if she were
in a cage. For a moment when she was in despair, she thought ofsasanov,
waiting in England, trusting and hoping, and forced herself to be calm,
to try and think ahead. There was no need to put the evidence together,
to justify by careful reasoning, her suspicion that Peter Harrington was
a traitor.  The final proof was in her hand. She had been so angry that
she shook as if she had a fever; she threw the thing she had discovered
hidden in the lining of her bag onto the floor, where it glowed red in a
patch of sunlight. Then she stopped and picked it up, and put it in the
pocket other dress.

"A gun," she said to herself.

"If only I had a gun..."  But there was no gun, and she wouldn't have
known how to use it if there were.  The sense of helplessness was so
frustrating that her eyes filled with tears and she dashed them angrily
away.  She called herself a fool, a fool wasting time imagining how she
could outface a man trained to kill or cripple with one blow. Cunning,
not false heroics; that was the only way to get Irina Sasanova and the
boy to safety.  She recognized that, and accepted that it could only be
done if she remained behind.  She looked at herself in the mirror; the
face seemed strange to her, hollow-cheeked, the tanned skin taut, great
shadows round her eyes.  She hadn't prayed since her childhood, but she
did so then, in a whisper.

"Dear God, give me the courage.  Don't let me think about it.  Just make
me brave." Then she opened the door and went out and downstairs to look
for the girl and the boy. They took a bus to the port; she sat with
Irina, while Harrington and Poliakov found seats in front.  Harrington
was in a talkative mood; he kept up a flow of Russian to the young man.
She hoped he didn't notice how quiet and uneasy Poliakov seemed.  Beside
her, Irina stared out of the window;

her bright prettiness had gone since Davina had found her in the garden.
She looked sallow and she bit her lower lip with nerves.

"God," Davina pleaded, 'don't let him notice anything.  don't let him
suspect.  " They got off at the port, and Peter Harrington took her arm.

"There's the Alexander Nevsky," he said.

"Nice ship, isn't she?  The two of them seem very glum- he hardly said a
word."

"Not surprising," Davina said.

"You never drew breath.  They're just terribly nervous, that's all.  I
nearly passed out myself at lunchtime."

"I know," he said.

"But you mustn't worry.  Everything's going to go smoothly.  I feel very
confident."

"You didn't this morning," she reminded him.  Keep talking to him, act
normally, whatever happens.  'you were paranoid about the wretched young
man," she went on.

"You frightened the life out of me talking about Spencer-Barr working
for the other side- no wonder I went at the knees!  What's made you so
optimistic all of a sudden?"

"Don't be cross," he murmured, bending towards her.  She caught a waft
of alcohol on his breath people were wrong when they said vodka didn't
smell.

"I just got worried, that's all.  I've got nerves too, you know.  He's
all right, I realized that after a bit.  I just don't like the
unexpected in this business.  And I'm sure that little creep isn't what
he's supposed to be.

I'm going to have a good dig round when we get back."

"Yes," Davina said slowly, "I should do that." Igor Kaledin sat leaning
forward, his elbows on Volkov's desk, bifocal glasses on the humpy
bridge of his nose.  He was a heavy pipe-smoker and there was a bank of
blue smoke above his head.  He had finished reading the file on Sasanov
that Volkov had written up himself and kept locked away.  It was open at
the last page of entries. Antonyii Volkov was known to be secretive,
greedy for exclusive credit, but not even Kaledin had appreciated how he
operated until he read the papers. Everything had been run off the
copier by Volkov himself; all tapes of calls, interviews and messages
were kept in duplicate in his private safe and only placed on general
file when the project was successful. And not all of them were, as
Kaledin discovered, skimming through other files whose code-names he
recognized.  Any evidence damaging to Volkov had been destroyed.  Only
what damaged others was included in his official reports.  He refilled
his pipe and lit it, puffing the strong-smelling tobacco-smoke; the back
of his leathery neck was a dull red, and the red of mounting anger
glowed in his little eyes behind the glasses. The defection of Ivan
Sasanov had been a major political disaster to the Politburo; its
propaganda value to the West had not been fully exploited by British
Intelligence, who had obliged the Russians with a faked-up corpse. And
Kaledin knew that Sasanov would need a period of negotiating with his
hosts before he decided to tell them what he knew.  And what he knew was
of such vital importance that the Mole, Danton, had been recalled from
New York and set to work in the SIS headquarters to try and find him.
The fire-bomb at Halldale Manor seemed to have succeeded; this was the
point in the file where Kaledin's blood-pressure started to rise in
proportion to his anger. Volkov had not believed it, but he had kept
this opinion to himself. And he had concealed Danton's confirmation of
that opinion.  He had told no one that he knew Sasanov had survived. The
enormity of what he had done and what he had risked showed the immensity
of his ambition. And that ambition was stated in his own neat
handwriting, in the notations which were a kind of personal journal,
never intended for anyone to read and gloat over but Volkov himself. He
was aiming for Kaledin's crown.  To bring the Soviet Union's most
damaging defector in twenty years back to Russia would prove his worth
and Igor Kaledin's incompetence.  And for this he had arrested Fedya
Sasanova.  An act which had it come to light would have proved
conclusively that her husband was alive and working with the West.  But
the arrest had been kept a secret, as secret as the detailed and
repellent account of his seduction of the daughter.  Kaledin had not the
slightest objection to any form of pressure, mental or physical, being
applied for a political end.  The hideous cruelty practised on
dissidents in the special psychiatric hospitals had his full approval,
but he operated on two levels in respect of his officers' conduct.
Political expediency justified any aberration;

abuse of power to satisfy degrading personal tastes brought the whole
organization into disrepute.  It mocked the symbolism of the shield that
was the badge of the KGB, the defender of the State against its enemies
outside and within.  The old man growled with rage at what he read.  To
frighten and blackmail the daughter, to hold the mother hostage- these
were recognized gambits in the game Volkov was playing.  But to pander
to his base instincts, as part of that game, affronted Kaledin's puritan
instincts.  He detested degeneracy; he persecuted homosexuals on
principle; he favoured the death penalty for rape. And so the plan
progressed, each phase developing as Kaledin read Danton's reports and
details of the denoument planned at Sebastopol. Irina Sasanova, and the
university tutor Poliakov, and a British woman agent masquerading as an
East German tourist, would be seized as they were about to embark on a
yacht in the port, falsely carrying Polish colours.  Danton was to be
allowed to escape and reach the yacht, returning to England to continue
his work.  The next and final phase in Volkov's plan was to negotiate
with the SIS and the British government for the return of Sasanov in
exchange for the freedom of his wife and daughter and the repatriation
of the British woman agent.  Danton had it on the best authority, that
of the woman agent herself, that Sasanov was prepared to come back to
Russia and submit to punishment to save his family. It was all as neat
as a jigsaw-puzzle; all the complicated pieces fitted and merged to form
the picture Antonyii Volkov wanted.  An outstanding Soviet Intelligence
coup, masterminded and executed by his subordinate without Kaledin's
knowledge.  But the vital piece in his picture was being bundled into a
grave within the confines of the KGB hospital at Kuntsevo.  The head was
missing from the hero- figure in the completed puzzle.  Volkov had
foreseen every eventuality except the one which had overtaken him in
Irina Sasanova's bed.  Keremov shut the file.  He looked at his watch
and calculated.  The cruise ship was on its way. The captain had
received his radio message.  Nothing could happen while he made up his
mind what course to take. Sasanov noticed that the American observer did
not appear again after the first day's session.  The courteous
Southerner had been introduced to him briefly, and had sat down at the
table between Kidson and the naval captain from the Ministry of Defence.
He made notes; Sasanov knew the recordings of the sessions would be
copied on tape and given to him for despatch to Washington.  He didn't
ask questions; after only one morning and afternoon he was absent from
the debriefing and didn't appear in the dining- room.  The next morning
Sasanov asked Kidson where he was.  Kidson looked very tired; he was his
calm and pleasant self, but there were signs of strain.

"He was called back suddenly," he told the Russian.

"Some internal crisis or other.  We're sending them the tapes and
they're happy with that for the moment." Sasanov frowned.

"That is strange," he said.

"They made so much of having their man here in person.  Why didn't
someone come out to replace him?"

"No doubt someone will," Kidson parried.

"It doesn't worry me if they're not here in the flesh.  I find them a
difficult mixture.  That chap for instance.  Old-world charm and
Southern-gentleman approach to everything, and underneath it I'd say he
was totally unscrupulous.  I never liked their strong-arm tactics.  "

"Maybe not," Sasanov said.

"But we respected them.  More than your service.  You don't like killing
enemy agents and you'd rather let your own traitors escape to Russia
than put them on trial.  We have never understood you.  I don't
understand you either."

"You understand us better than you make out," Kidson said.

"You'd give yourself up to save your family and Dav- ina Graham.  You
threw your life and your career away because of what was done to your
friend.  I can't imagine our colleague from Langley doing either." There
was bitterness in his voice. He said to Sasanov, "We're due to start in
ten minutes.  You go down to the conference room and I'll join you."
When Sasanov had gone he went to the window and opened it.  The warm
summer air fanned his face; his head throbbed with the painful migraine
that plagued him when he was under stress.  He knew the CIA would not be
sending another representative to Hampshire.  They would get the tapes
and that was all. The Brigadier's disclosure that there was a leak to
the KGB had prompted them to activate their agent Spencer Barr ahead of
White's revised plan. Their reaction had produced an over-kill response
literally, because Spencer-Barr had arranged the murder of Volkov so
that the escape from Sebastopol could take place.  The instructions sent
to him to change the escape route had cited Volkov's lone-wolf method of
operating. This had given the CIA man in Moscow the idea of stalling a
KGB arrest by murdering the man who was to give the order.  Spencer-Barr
had ignored his instructions from London and obeyed Washington instead.
Without knowing that the source of the leak and the real danger to Irina
Sasanova was waiting for her in Livadia, he had transmitted the original
British plan for the escape by sea, and delivered everything into the
hands of Peter Harrington.  And there was nothing London could do to
stop it.  Even Spencer-Barr's confession that he had included a warning
of KGB penetration would be passed to the Soviet agent in person.  He
and Grant had combined with the security chief in the Moscow Embassy;

from Spencer-Barr's admissions and the evasive answers of the Southern
gentleman from Langley, details of the disaster had been pieced
together. There was no means of warning Davina Graham and the two young
Russians that they were joined up with a KGB agent; no time to obtain a
pass to the Crimea and send someone out.  It was already 25 July and the
cruise ship Alexander Nevsky would be docked in the port and waiting to
take on its passengers. The NATO submarine would have set out from
Turkey and be on its way to the rendezvous point in the Black Sea. The
machinery had been started on its complicated programme; he and his
Chief and Grant could only sit helplessly in the English countryside,
while Harrington drew the net around his victims.  Kidson was not a man
of fierce emotions; he was opposed to extremes in any form; he prided
himself on not hating anyone. But he hated Peter Harrington enough to
kill him.  Not just for the failure his Service would suffer; that was
the least of his reasons for wanting a fellow human dead.  But for the
waste ofsasanov, whom he had grown to respect and like, and for the two
young people fleeing tyranny. And for the woman who.  had amazed them
all by showing her capacity for loving and inspiring love.  All of them
would be destroyed in their different ways, their sacrifices wasted.  He
closed his eyes, the migraine making him feel nauseated.  He had spent
all night with Grant searching for a way to warn Davina Graham.  A call
from Moscow to her personally would alert Harrington at once; all calls
were monitored, especially those to foreigners and there were no agents
within a hundred-mile radius of the holiday resort.  She was as
effectively isolated from the outside world as if she were marooned at
sea.  They had driven themselves to despair during the night, and found
no solution.  It was vital to keep Sasanov in ignorance that their plans
had gone wrong. He had been puzzled by the disappearance of the American
observer; the gentleman had been flown home with the Brigadier's
personal protest to the Director in Washington, and there would be no
replacement at this stage.  And ahead, thought Kidson, feeling his
aching forehead, was the task he dreaded most, and no one else but he
could do it. Telling Sasanov that they had lost them all. The NATO
submarine surfaced at 5 a.  m.  that Saturday morning; its scanners
reported clear skies above.  Within two hours the hull sections of the
yacht had been assembled, the mast fixed into place and the small but
powerful motor secured astern.  The SAS captain and his crew were in
shorts and sweat-shirts; they looked very bronzed and fit.  Automatic
weapons and grenades were stowed away in the bottom of the boat in a
wicker picnic-basket.  They launched her from the side of the sub; the
sea was calm but a fresh breeze was blowing south-south-west. The young
captain's name was Fergus MacKie; he was twenty-seven and his last tour
of duty had been undercover in the bandit territory of Armagh on the
Ulster border.  He grinned briefly at the sub's commander.

"Thank you sir, all ready to set off.  We'll rendezvous with you at
22:00 hours.  If anything goes wrong we'll send the prearranged signal;
otherwise give us an hour's grace."

"Fine."  The naval commander saluted him.

"We'll be waiting for you. Good luck.  " MacKie turned to his crew.

"Cast off," he said.

"Start motor and get out of here before she submerges." The yacht swung
to starboard and skimmed some hundred yards away from the long dark body
of the submarine.

"Stop the motor," MacKie said.

"Hoist sails.  There she goes!" The submarine slid under the surface,
and her wake spread fan wise from where she had been.  The yacht bobbed
up and down on it.  MacKie's lance-corporal was another Scot, Bob
Ferrie, a small, terrier-like man. He said to his officer, "Makes ye
feel like a motherless child, sir, seem' her go like that.  "

"How would you know?"  MacKie grinned at him.

"You never had a mother. Come on, let's get her set on course.  From now
on we sail; we've got plenty of time and the wind's just right.  "

"Lovely day for a sail, sir," the third of his men called out.

"Certainly is," was the reply.

"Let's make the most of it.  Run up the Polish flag." The Alexander
Nevsky was one of the smaller ships of the Moldiva line;

she carried a crew of eighty and accommodated up to two hundred
passengers. She plied the coast route round the Black Sea ports, from
Tibesk in the north round to Yalta, and from there she stopped at the
picturesque seaside resorts of Bukim, Talinin, Sebastopol.  She was a
well-equipped vessel, with cheerful decor and pleasant bars; there was
an organizer for deck games and the inevitable Intourist guides for the
excursions ashore.  The trip round to Sebastopol included a dance and
dinner for those passengers who planned to visit Sebastopol in the
morning tour. The ship stayed overnight and returned to Yalta the
following day. Peter Harrington went to the bar on the sun-deck; he
ordered a Stolnychaya vodka the lethal Russian 90 proof and a dish of
pickled cucumbers and onions.

"Have some," he suggested to Davina and the young couple.

"Wonderful stuff- nearly blows your head off!  It was Stalin's secret
weapon at the Yalta Conference."  He lowered his voice.

"He got that old idiot Roosevelt drunk on this and he got Poland and
half Germany given to him on a plate..."  He put his head back and
laughed.

"Please," Poliakov whispered to him, 'don't talk like that.  " He gave a
nervous glance round them; nobody was sitting near, but the barman was
looking at them.  Harrington patted his knee.

"Don't worry, my friend.  Nobody can hear me.  Sure you won't have
some?" Poliakov shook his head.

"I think we'll go on deck," he said.  He took Irina's arm and led her
firmly away towards the door.

"He doesn't approve of me," Harrington remarked.

"Have a sip," he said to Davina.  She didn't want to take the glass but
he insisted.  She barely touched the vodka.  Using the glass after him
disgusted her.

"Don't you think you should be careful," she said.

"That's practically pure alcohol."

"I'm only going to have one," he said.

"Just to send the butterflies in my stomach to sleep.  What's happened
to yours, Davy?  You look like the village schoolmistress, all prim and
pursed-up.  It doesn't suit you."

"Getting drunk doesn't suit you either," she retorted.

"I'm going on deck too."

"Wait a minute."  He reached out and caught her arm.

"What's the matter with you?  You've been snapping my head off every
minuteI'm not going to get drunk!  What sort of bloody fool do you think
I am?"  he whispered angrily. Davina pulled herself free of him.

"I don't know," she said.

"What sort of a bloody fool are you?  You tell me."  She turned and
walked away.  She had to get away from him;

everything he did maddened and disgusted her, and it was showing. While
he sat playing the fool, acting out his threadbare part for their
benefit, she had longed to strike the glass of vodka out of his hand. He
wasn't going to get drunk; he was just fortifying himself for the moment
when he betrayed them.  She stood by the ship's rail, looking down at
the blue water crested with white foam as it rushed away from the sides.
She took in a deep breath to steady herself.  The sun was gloriously
hot, and the clean sea breeze whipped at her hair.  She mustn't do this;
she mustn't show her feelings or he might suspect something.  She had to
go back to the bar and find him and stay at his side until they docked
at Sebastopol.  First she needed a final word with Irina.

"You know what you've got to do?" Irina nodded.

"Yes.  We'll do it.  But we're worried about leaving you."

"You mustn't think about it," Davina said.

"I'll come after you.  But you must only use what I gave you if the
worst happens.  You understand that?"

"Yes," Irina said.

"I want you to do something else, a favour," Davina said quietly.

"If I don't get to the yacht, when you see your father would you give
him a message from me?"

"Of course," the girl said.  She looked unhappy.

"I don't like to do this nor does Alexei..."

"Just tell your father I send him my love." Irina Sasanova looked up
sharply.

"I send him my love."  Ich habe ihm meine Lube geschickt: the words had
only their literal meaning in German; they were not used in any other
context. And she saw the truth in the other woman's eyes, and the film
of tears that made them brighter. Her love.  suddenly she understood the
deeper meaning of the risk that this woman was taking to make sure that
she and Alexei got away. She laid her hand on Davina's and said gently,
"I will tell him...  but you will escape too."

"If I don't see you again," Davina murmured, 'good luck.  Say goodbye to
your friend for me.  And whatever you do, don't hesitate and don't look
back for me.  " Then she turned and walked quickly away from them.  With
the back of her hand she wiped the tears that had slipped onto her
cheeks, and squared her shoulders.  She made her way back to the bar and
to the table where Peter Harrington was sitting.  He looked up and
smiled at her.  She smiled down at him.

"Had a breath of fresh air?"  he asked.

"Not feeling so cross with me?"

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I just get upset when you drink too much.  Get me a glass of wine, will
you? Then we might do a tour of the ship." He looked genuinely pleased;
she marvelled at his ability to deceive. He hurried to the bar and came
back with a glass of chilled white Crimean wine.  He reached out and
took her hand. She did nothing when he squeezed it.

"You know something?  I hate getting on the wrong side of you.  You're a
funny girl, Davy; I'm not surprised Ivan the Terrible fell for you. You
may not realize it, but you've done a lot for me.  You've made me feel
I'm worth something still.  That's why it's so important to me that we
bring this off.  I want to shine for you; you know that?  "

"You want to get away with a whole skin and so do I," she retorted,
forcing herself to sound friendly.

"And those poor kids outside."

"Where are they, by the way?"  He asked it very casually.

"I saw them outside on deck," she said.

"Wandering round holding hands."

"Love's young dream," he said.

"She's not bad-looking;

bit on the heavy side for me.  I like them slim.  If she had your
figure, she'd be quite something.  Tell me, is she anything like Ivan? "

"Not to look at," Davina said.

"Just an expression sometimes."

"And are you really never going to see him again?"

"I told you.  No.  I signed an undertaking."

"I bet that was Grant's idea," he said sourly.

"Miserable fairy, that's what he is.  If you never see Ivan again, then
you might possibly consider me as a second best...  You don't think I'm
serious, do you?"

"No," she said pleasantly, hating him and trying not to wrench her hand
away.

"If I said yes, you'd run for your life.  But I'm not going to, so don't
worry.  Why don't we go and explore the ship?"

"Good idea, why don't you leave your bag with the barman instead of
carrying it round here I'll take it."  Harrington heaved himself up. She
wondered whether he had drunk a second glass of vodka while she was out
on deck.  He didn't seem quite steady.  She let him take the Hermes
handbag and give it to the man behind the bar.  Then they went out on
deck. The yacht was in sight of Sebastopol harbour; there had been a
good steady wind and they had made faster time than expected.  MacKie
dropped anchor and furled the sail.  He and his men unpacked food and
drink and lay sun bathing and picnicking in good view of watchers from
the shore. The boat bobbed on a steady swell, whipped by the wind.
MacKie looked at his watch, and after twenty minutes Bob Ferrie reported
a passenger ship to starboard, heading for the harbour. MacKie crouched
in the scuppers and trained binoculars on her.

"It's the cruise ship," he said.

"Dead on time.  Pull up anchor and make sail; we'll tack about till
she's docked.  Then we make for the port." The captain of the Alexander
Nevsky had received his radio instructions just before they docked.  No
passengers were to be allowed ashore; he was to follow any orders given
by an accredited KGB officer who was among the passengers.  He sent a
message back acknowledging receipt of the signal, and gave his first
officer orders to keep everyone on board. Passengers joining the ship at
Sebastopol were to be admitted, but no one was to leave.  The first
officer went on deck to supervise the lowering of the gangway and to
post a petty officer and two seamen, one of them armed, at the top.
Harrington and Davina were standing on the upper deck; they watched the
ship ease into position and dock.  She had hooked her arm through his
and was unaware of how tightly she was holding on.  He stepped away from
the rail. He smiled, and the tone of his voice was very casual.

"We'll be off any minute now," he said.

"They're getting the gangway into position."  The loudspeaker
announcement brayed out just as he finished speaking.  She felt him go
rigid.

"What is it?  What are they saying?"

"Ssh, wait I can't hear..."  And then he said "Oh Christ," and she saw
the mask of apprehension cover his second's exposure of relief.

"What's the matter?"  she whispered.

"What is it?"

"They've stopped passengers going ashore," he said.

"Oh Christ, that's really done it.  We'd better get the other two and
stick together. Listen, I'll go and see what I can find out.  It may be
just till the people joining the ship have come aboard.  We could still
make the harbour in time. Go and find them; I'll go to the bridge and
see what the score is.  " Davina watched him hurry away.  Not to the
bridge but to the bar and to the handbag left there for safekeeping.
Irina and Alexei were waiting round the bulkhead out of sight.  She ran
to find them.  The gangway was fixed in position.  The two seamen and
the petty officer were grouped at the head, and a chain spanned the
opening. She called to Irina, "Now quickly!  Tell him for God's sake not
to seem hesitant.  Hurry!"  Then she went back to the rail, gripping it
with hands that trembled.  She hardly dared to watch what happened when
Alexei Poliakov and Irina Sasanova went to the head of the gangway.
Harrington rushed up to the barman.

"The lady's handbag," he demanded.  The man shook his head.  He resented
the foreigner's tone.

"It's not here," he said sourly. Harrington stared at him.

"What do you mean?  I left it with you before we went on deck!"

"She came back for it," the barman said.

"I gave it to her." Harrington started to swear at him and then stopped.
Steady, he told himself.  Steady.  Volkov got your message;

they've closed the ship; they can't get away.  They'll be arrested any
minute.  But you need that handbag, just in case.  And then he paused
again, remembering that he hadn't seen Davina carrying it since she left
the bar. He turned back to the surly young Russian.

"Are you quite sure you gave it to the right woman?  The one sitting
here with me?"

"Quite sure," came the answer.

"A German woman; she was the one drinking in here with you, Comrade; I
gave her back her bag.  "

"When?"  Harrington demanded.

"About half an hour ago."  The barman turned his back on Harrington and
began replacing bottles on the shelf above.  Harrington swung round; he
hurried outside and towards the bridge.  A seaman on duty barred his
way.  He snapped at him in Russian.

"I must see the captain.  Official business."

"I am sorry.  No one is allowed onto the bridge."  Harrington took a
deep breath and said, "I am an officer of the KGB." The seaman
stiffened.

"I can't let you pass without your authority, Comrade." Harrington
didn't waste time arguing.  He said, "You'll regret obstructing me," and
turned away.  He found Davina leaning on the rail where he had left her.
Alexei Poliakov had marched straight up to the petty officer standing by
the top of the gangway.  His expression was grim, and there was an
arrogance in his approach that put the petty officer on his guard. Irina
was at his heels.  He spoke to the man in a low, sharp voice.

"Open the gangway!  KGB." The officer glanced down at the palm opened in
front of him and saw the red identity card flick open and shut faster
than an eye could blink. He came to attention and saluted.  He snapped
at the seaman on the left, and they immediately unhooked the chain.
Alexei caught Irina by the arm and they reached the quay.  The petty
officer didn't watch them; the chain was replaced and he kept his eyes
inwards on the ship.  No one in his senses queried the holder of the red
card, with its shield and crossed swords on the front.  At least no one
of his rank.  And you didn't peer after them either.  You did what you
were told and you minded your own business.  The holder of the KGB card
was the one Soviet citizen to whom the rules never applied.

"Where are Irina and Alexei?"  Harrington asked. Davina turned round
from the rail.

"I couldn't find them," she said. He looked shocked and strange for a
moment.

"What do you mean?  Where's your bag?"

"I don't know," she said again.

"Why?" The effort he made to keep calm was so great that it showed in
the deep breath he took, the deliberate unclenching of his hands.

"I went to get it from the bar, and he said you'd already collected it.
Where is it?" She shrugged; she felt extraordinarily brave, reckless.
They had got away. She'd seen them disappearing into the crowds on the
dock.  The handbag, with its ripped-out lining, was floating somewhere
out at sea.

"I must have left it behind when I went to the ladies' loo," she said.

"I thought you were going to the bridge, to find out what had happened.
What's all the fuss about my bag?"

"No fuss," he said slowly.

"I couldn't get on the bridge.  Listen, there's something very important
in your bag.  I must get it.  I put it there for safe keeping."

I'm sure you did, she taunted him inwardly.  And you'll never guess who
used it just now to get off the ship.  "I'll go and look for it," she
said.

"Why don't you go and look for Irina and Alexei?  I won't be long; meet
me back here." She dawdled on her way to the toilets; she didn't bother
to go inside. She gave herself ten minutes and then went back.  He was
not at the ship's rail.  She found a deck-chair and sat down; she had
cigarettes and matches in the pocket of her dress the pocket where she
had hidden his KGB card before she gave it to Alexei.  She lit a
cigarette and leaned back, closing her eyes.  The exhilaration drained
out of her, leaving a cold little flutter of fear in its place.
Something had certainly happened; some move had been made against them
when the passengers were not allowed to leave.  There was nothing more
she could do but wait.  wait for the inevitable.  There was no hope of
getting to the yacht without Harrington, even if the embargo were not
connected with them and was lifted in time.  And it wouldn't be.
Tourists were being allowed to come aboard;

there were a lot of them and the process was slow.  By now Irina and
Poliakov must have reached the yacht marina on foot.  It was already too
late for her. She sat in the deck- chair as the last of those embarking
came on board, and the sun began to set. There was a chill in the air
and she shivered.  In the restaurant on the second deck the orchestra
began to tune up.  The dancing would begin quite soon.  She got up and
went to the rail again; she looked at her watch.  The yacht should be
well on its way out to sea by now.

unless Harrington had got to the captain and they had been intercepted.
She closed her eyes and prayed again, very simply.

"Dear God.  Don't let it happen.  Let them get away."  And when she saw
Peter Harrington coming towards her, she knew by the sag of his
shoulders and the hesitation in his step that the prayer had long been
answered.

"There!"  Alexei dragged Irina to a stop.

"There they are look!" There were many yachts moored in the marina; most
of them were large motor-cruisers; a few were small, privately owned.
East European flags abounded, flying the hammer and sickle alongside out
of courtesy to the host port.  Rumanian, East German, Hungarian and
Polish.  There were three Polish vessels; a big ocean-going motor-
cruiser, a smaller type with two women enjoying the last of the
sunshine; and a small, sleek, single-masted yacht, with three men on
board.  The Polish flag fluttered in a brisk little breeze blowing in
from the sea.

"It must be them," Alexei insisted.

"Women wouldn't be on board and that's a very big boat next to them.
It's that little yacht I'm sure!" They moved closer to the edge of the
long jetty; Irina pulled off the bright yellow handkerchief she wore on
her head.  One of the men on the little yacht was watching the marina,
and seemed to be watching them. She shook the little scarf out and waved
it in her right hand.  Instantly the man in the yacht waved back.

"It is them," she whispered to Alexei.

"It is..." MacKie was waving at them, grinning; it was a recognition of
friends so far as the spectators were concerned. Irina was amazed to
hear a voice from the boat shout in Polish.

"Hey there!  We thought you weren't coming jump in the dinghy." They
lowered the little rubber dinghy; one man pulled on the mooring-rope to
bring himself and the dinghy alongside the jetty.  He held out a hand to
Irina Sasanova.  He had a brown face and bright brown eyes, white teeth
showing in a broad smile.

"Hold tight and step in," he said in Polish.  She caught the hand; the
grip was like an iron band, the muscles of his arm swelled under her
full weight as he helped to swing her into the dinghy.  She swayed and
almost lost her balance till he lowered her onto one side of it.  He
reached out for Alexei Poliakov and helped him down.  Then he began to
haul on the rope to bring them alongside the yacht.  Hands helped them
climb aboard; nobody spoke, but to her surprise, MacKie put his arms
round her and kissed her on both cheeks. The man in the dinghy was
pulling himself back to the jetty.  He tied up the dinghy and leapt
ashore.  The yacht was moored to a bollard; he pulled the rope loop free
and threw it into the water.  Then he jumped down into the dinghy, cast
off and paddled the few yards to the yacht. It was done so quickly and
with so little effort, that people on the jetty didn't have time to
offer help.  He swung himself up and into the yacht; the dinghy was
hoisted aboard, and made fast at the stern. Irina and Alexei were given
glasses; there was a brief touching of them, as if they were drinking a
toast, and then MacKie nodded to Bob Ferrie and mouthed the words,
"Start engine.  Raise anchor."  The throbbing sound drowned their
whispers.  They were asked, in Polish, "Where are the others?" and Irina
answered, "They didn't get away.  One of them was a traitor.  The other
one stayed behind to help us.  Don't wait; she said you must hurry as
fast as you can." She hid her face against Poliakov and began to cry
silently, as the anchor was pulled aboard and the yacht swung its sharp
prow out to sea. From the moment she had waved her handkerchief until
they cut the engine and hoisted sail as they left the harbour, fewer
than fifteen minutes had passed.  It seemed to her and to Alexei as long
as every moment of their lives.  Only the crew appeared cheerful and
relaxed;

they were laughing and making remarks to each other in what she guessed
was English.  The one who spoke Polish brought out sweaters for his
companions and one each for them.

"It'll get cold," he said.

"We've got about two hours' sailing ahead of us.  Let's hope the wind
holds. Do you want anything to eat?"

"No thank you," Alexei said.  He pulled Irina closer to him.

"Where are we going?" The man asked a question of the big crewman who
had embraced Irina. MacKie nodded.

"You can tell them.  No harm in them knowing."

"We're going to a pick-up point just outside Bulkina, near the
promontory. It'll be dark by then and we'll find our sub waiting for us.
We'll be in Midina by tomorrow morning.  Sit tight now, we're getting a
really good wind."  He grinned down at the girl and the young man.  They
looked drawn and exhausted and the girl was still wiping her eyes.

"Don't worry," he said.

"Everything's going to be fine."

"What did she say about the others?"  MacKie asked him.

"Said one of them was working for the Russians.  The other stayed behind
and let them get away.  She said" she" so it must be a woman. Bloody
brave, sir.  I wouldn't fancy being caught by that lot.  "

"Nor would I," MacKie said.

"So let's keep her running, in case they send something nice and fast in
pursuit.  The sooner we get inside that sub the better!"

Darkness came upon them quite suddenly; two powerful lights beamed out
from the yacht's prow; they were flying before a strong wind, the spray
shooting up on either side of them. Irina huddled inside Alexei's arm.

"I can't believe it," she whispered.

"I can't believe we're going to get away...  I keep thinking other,
Alexei. If only I could pray to something for her.  They'll shoot her,
won't they?"

"No," he whispered, comforting her.

"No, they won't do that.  I believe in God, Irina.  I've been a
Christian for a long time.  I have been praying for her ever since we
left.  Shut your eyes my darling, and try to sleep." After a while he
sensed that she had indeed drifted away;

banks of clouds covered the moon; when the wind blew them apart, the
moon shone briefly on them, and he could see how wan and exhausted she
looked.  He couldn't sleep himself; the little ship was cutting through
the seas, but she was pitching and he was feeling sick.  As they came in
sight of the promontory, guided by the slow flashing of its yellow
lighthouse beam, the wind dropped.  The yacht was in total darkness, its
headlights extinguished whilst they were out at sea.  MacKie had the
motor started, and they began to move across the steady water, making a
wide sweep around the promontory; then the engines cut out, and they
used what little wind there was to tack to and fro within the same area.
MacKie checked the time; they were only twenty minutes behind schedule.
The waiting sub would pick them up on her scanner, and surface.  Irina
had woken; she sat beside Poliakov in the stern. The crew were silent,
maneuvering the little yacht. They didn't see her surface; the clouds
were dense, the blackness impenetrable.  They heard the rush and gurgle
of the seas as they parted, and a hooded light winked in signal.  Ferric
uncovered his signal lamp and rapidly acknowledged.  The yacht began to
move towards the light and the shape of the submarine became apparent,
with men moving on her deck.  More lights came on, carefully hooded and
dimmed against reflection, guiding the yacht close up.  The sea was calm
and it was possible to launch the dinghy and lower Irina into it,
followed by Alexei, who was dizzy with seasickness.  The Polish-speaking
crewman paddled to the sub's black sides, threw up a rope which was
caught, and caught in turn a flexible ladder. He heaved the Russian girl
up with his shoulder under her buttocks, until she was clinging to the
ladder, inching her way within reach of the seaman above who grabbed her
wrists and pulled her up.  Poliakov was more athletic.  The spray
slapping against the submarine soaked them to the skin.  Men shepherded
them to the conning-tower and down the open hatch into the belly of the
ship. The dinghy went back to the yacht; the wicker basket containing
the arms and grenades was loaded in, secured on a rope and hauled aboard
the sub. MacKie gave the order to scuttle; Bob Ferric opened the
sea-cocks, then both men dived overboard and swam to the parent
submarine.  They climbed the ladder, joining the Polish-speaking
corporal, who was deflating the dinghy.

"Chuck that back in."  The naval commander came up to them.

"Let's get below and underway." The dinghy was heaved back into the sea,
air hissing from its open tubes. The yacht was settling down by the
stern.  The SAS commandos didn't wait to see her go.  They scrambled up
to the conning-tower and down the hatch.  Five minutes later the
submarine slid gently below the surface. Inside it, watched by Irina and
Alexei Poliakor, the commander shook Fergus MacKie and his men by the
hand.  The two young Russians were each given cups of very strong sweet
tea laced with brandy.  They looked at each other, and at the men who
had rescued them, and began to laugh and cry at the same time.

"They are not on the ship.  We have searched everywhere, and there's no
place they could be hiding." Harrington faced the captain; the captain
looked uneasy.  He was in a weak position, made weaker still by his
delay in seeing what he now knew to be a very senior KGB officer.  Radio
confirmation of his claim had come in from Moscow, and while the dancers
jigged and shuffled under the fairy-lights on deck, his men had searched
the ship from the stem to the stern, looking in the smallest possible
spaces where a person could hide, and had found no sign of the missing
girl and the young man.  The petty officer on duty at the gangway stood
stiffly in front of them and swore he had not allowed any passengers to
disembark.  The two seamen said the same.  They were dismissed, and
outside the captain's cabin, the petty officer spoke low and briefly to
them.

"Good lads.  We didn't let any passengers through.  The KGB aren't
passengers.  We know nothing and we say nothing, and we can't get into
trouble.  Remember; we'll lose our seaman's cards if anything gets out.
Back to your posts!  " He wiped his sweating face with his sleeve and
hurried away.  Loss of his card meant that he would be unable to serve
on any ship again.  He could be sent to any place in the interior as a
punishment, and put to any work.  His men would suffer the same.  Nobody
was going to say anything when the KGB were involved, at least until the
KGB asked the questions.  He was not just being careful, he was being
loyal.  He went down to the mess deck and swallowed a vodka; it made him
sweat even more but it steadied his nerves. In the cabin Harrington
turned angrily on the captain' If they're not on board," he said, 'then
they've somehow got ashore. And you've let two dangerous criminals
wanted by the security police escape from your ship.  I wouldn't like to
be in your place, Captain, when we get back to Yalta!  "

"They could possibly have jumped overboard," the captain suggested.

"But they would have been seen if we were near the harbour.  Perhaps
they did it at sea."  He looked hopeful.

"If they did, they would have drowned.  The currents here are very
strong outside the coastline."

"That's what you hope," Harrington snapped.  He turned away in fury.
They wouldn't have committed suicide by trying to swim ashore when they
had no reason to think they would be detained on the ship like-everybody
else.  If they jumped after the announcement prohibiting disembarkation,
they would certainly have been seen.  The ship was already docked; it
was an impossible alternative. They must have got past the goons on the
gangway; there was no other explanation.  He lit a cigarette, his hand
visibly unsteady.  They had gone. That was the only fact.  And because
Davina Graham's bag had been stolen when she left it behind in the
toilet, he had wasted all this time in making the captain check his
credentials with Moscow.  The lack of his red card had prevented him
having Davina and the other two arrested as soon as the ship docked. As
soon as it became obvious that apart from the one precaution, Volkov
hadn't arranged anything to secure them, he had been frantic;

and while he argued with the sailor at the bridge and searched for
Davina's bag with his vital authority hidden in it, Irina Sasanova and
her lover had slipped ashore.  By what means nobody could tell, but they
had vanished. Volkov had lost one of his major bargaining counters but
at least there was one left.  He turned back to the captain.

"I want to speak to Moscow, ship to shore," he said.

"And there's a woman on board I want arrested.  She was concerned with
these criminals.  At least we won't lose her!"  He threw Davina's
passport on the table.

"Bring her in and have the Intourist man interpret for you.  She doesn't
speak Russian.  I'll tell him what to ask her.  And get that phone link
through as soon as possible!  I want a person-to-person call with
Comrade General An- tony ii Volkov, Department of Internal Security."
While Harrington waited, he gave a short sharp briefing on how Davina
Graham was to be interrogated.  And he remembered her telling him once,
over a cosy dinner, that she had always been terrified of enclosed
spaces. As soon as she saw the seamen coming towards her, Davina knew
she was going to be arrested.  She waited for them;

they seemed to be moving in slow motion, like characters in a film
running at half speed. Her heart gave a series of rapid beats, as if it
were lurching in her chest. The dread that overcame her was like
paralysis; she didn't shake or move; she sat motionless and watched them
coming nearer and finally stopping in front other.  She didn't
understand the Russian words, but there was no mistake about the hands
pulling her to her feet, and closing in on either side of her,
propelling her towards the companionway. They took her to a cabin, and
there were two men inside.  One wore the uniform of a ship's captain and
the second was the Intourist guide responsible for passengers.  The
guide spoke in German.

"Your passport and visa where are they?"  The tone was harsh, the faces
round her coldly hostile.

"My husband has them."  The speech had been rehearsed often enough.  She
knew it was all lies and useless but there was nothing else to say.

"Your name, and details." She said, "Gertrude Fleischer; my husband is
Heinz Fleischer.  We are citizens of the German Democratic Re public, on
holiday at Livadia. What is wrong?  Why have you brought me down here? "
And then because it seemed the obvious thing to say," Where is my
husband?  "

"Under arrest," the Intourist interpreter snapped.

"Why do you not keep your passport and documents with you?  Why do you
say your husband has them?  Why don't you carry them in your own
handbag?" The handbag.  That's what they were after.  The bag she had
told Harrington must have been stolen, because it wasn't in the toilet.
It had vanished, like Sasanov's daughter and the tutor.  He swung away
from her without a word of explanation.  She stayed where she was, and
then the seamen came.  She wet her lips quickly with her tongue; they
felt cracked and dry.  She had been warned not to do that if she were
questioned, it was a sign that the suspect was lying.  But she wet her
lips and answered.

"It's a good thing I didn't keep them in my bag.  My bag was stolen this
evening when I left it in the ladies' toilet."

"And you didn't report it?"  the guide sneered at her.

"You didn't report a theft immediately?  Did you lose money?  Why are
telling lies, Frau Fleischer?  Don't you relize you could be in serious
trouble." He paused, and she felt the captain staring hard at her.  Now
she was begining to shake; she knew she was looking frightened because
there was a brief exchange of satisfied looks between the two men.  And
where was Harrington?  Spying on them from the next-door cabin waiting
for her nerve to give way? The questions were only a form of
provocation.  They knew who she was and why she was on board the ship.
Harrington had told them.  They would go on threatening her and accusing
her of lying until she gave them all the satisfaction of breaking down.

"I'll see you damned," she murmered to herself.

"I'm Gertrude Fleischer until that bastard comes face to face with me
and says I'm not' - and she squared her jaw and said in her most
obstinate voice! "I am not lying.  Why don't you send for my husband? He
has my passport and all my papers.  " Fear can take the form of reckless
boldness; her legs trembled under her, and her heart was flying round
like a loose bird, hammering to get out; she folded her arms over it, as
if to keep it close, and stared back at her interrogator.  She didn't
know it, but she looked very like her father as he stood on the bridge
of his cruiser in the last war, and set course for the enemy. The
Intourist guide spoke briefly to the captain.  He nodded.  When the man
turned back to her there was open menace in his expression.  He advanced
a step towards her;

he stabbed his forefinger at her, almost touching her face.

"If you won't co-operate with me, and the ship's captain," he said very
loudly, 'then you will be handed over to the security police when we
reach Yalta.  We are returning there immediately.  You will be locked up
till we dock and they come to take you away.  " The place where she
spent the next three hours was an old locker; it had no ventilation
apart from the crack under the door, and no light. She felt round the
walls with her hands and started taking long deep breaths to stop
herself from panicking and screaming.  There's no such thing as
claustrophobia.  It's just a cupboard.  They're trying to frighten you
into admitting that you're not Getrude Fleischer, and the minute you do
that they'll really have you.  They'll break you in pieces to find out
how Irina and the boy escaped.  And they haven't caught them, don't you
realize that otherwise they wouldn't need to do this to you.  They'd
have you all in together and gloat so steady yourself. Look, there's a
light shining under the door.  Sit on the floor and get close to it.
That's it, crouch down so you can see the light.  You'll forget it's
dark and so small in here because you can imagine the corridor outside.
You'll hear someone pass in a minute. Alright then, cry, curse, talk to
you self Do what you like but stop thinking about the space.  Breath
deeply, make your heart stop racing;

it can't if you take deep breaths.  Remember, that's what women are
taught in natural child birth and they are able to relax and stay calm.
Think about Sasanov no, don't think about him or you'll start thinking
about his wife and what's going to happen to you.  If you hold your
breath long enough you can make yourself faint.  Dear God, why don't I
just pass out There, someone's walking past you, you can hear them.
Maybe they've come to let you out. When they did let her out, she
blinked, her eyes stung by the light. She walked quite steadily along
the passage in the bright artificial light, and in' through the door
into the cabin.  And then she saw it wasn't a cabin but a closet, low
ceilinged and tiny.  As the door slammed and the light went out, she
heard herself scream before she buckled at the knees and fainted. Igor
Kaledin sipped his glass of hot tea.  They had brought the samovar
to Volkov's office, with cheese and savouries, and a bottle of Polish
brandy. The blinds were drawn and a clear light fell over his shoulder
onto the papers piled in front of him.  The rest of the office was in
soothing semidarkness.  He had spent the whole day there, hunched over
the records of Antonyii Volkov's seven years of tenure, piecing together
the plan he had devised to give him Kaledin's post in the Politburo. The
fact that he was dead didn't deflect the old man's anger; the fact that
his death had caused a chain of circumstances due entirely to his
treasonable secrecy was what enraged Kaledin.  There had been no chain
of command, no fail-safe for an emergency, such as his murder in a
girl's flat.  Danton's message had gone unanswered until it was too late
to do anything effective about it.  And by the time Kaledin had
unravelled the identities of the people it referred to, the ship itself
had docked, and, as the latest report handed in by Major Tatischev
confirmed, two of the fugitives had got away and made their rendezvous.
People had seen them on the marina, boarding the yacht with the Polish
colours at its masthead. Just as Harrington's frenzied conversation on
the ship-to-shore telephone had explained to him.  The yacht had put to
sea and though they sent search planes to look for it, it was like
hunting a pea in a feather bed.  They would never be found, and
doubtless the submarine that took them on board was well on her way to
Turkish waters. Far from bringing Sasanov back, Volkov's only
accomplishment was to comfort him in his exile, by sending him his
daughter.  There was, of course, the Englishwoman; she was under arrest
on the Alexander Nevsky. Harrington had assured him that she was
valuable, very valuable. Kaledin had listened with irritation to the
traitor's attempts to retrieve the situation.  She would be valuable as
an exchange, in due course, but not for Sasanov.  Volkov's analysis
stressed his devotion to his daughter and his wife.  The woman was his
lover, Harrington insisted.  Kaledin shrugged the information aside. Men
didn't give themselves up to save a woman they'd known for a few months.
Sasanov had not made any move when his wife was arrested.  The British
wouldn't let him; they had obviously held out this rescue attempt as the
bait to keep him on their side.  The higher his hopes the greater the
reaction when they were disappointed.  If Volkov had succeeded and the
daughter joined the wife in the Gulag, whilst the British agent answered
questions in the Lubyanka, then Sasanov might have proved useless to his
British hosts, and a deal could have been arranged.  A man's commitment
to his own safety, even to the ideals which had made him defect,
wouldn't have stood up to that test. Especially not a man of
sensitivity, like Sasanov, with his conscience rubbed raw by the death
of Jacob Belezky.  He had been a brilliant officer, but always hampered
by his capacity for human feelings, when those feelings were out of
place. Volkov had contrived a masterpiece of Intelligence work, aided by
Danton the Mole.  His superior sat and drank his tea and pondered on how
to make use of it.  Major Tatischev waited in the shadows, perched on an
angular modern chair.  He didn't dare to interrupt or even to clear his
throat while the second most powerful man in Soviet Russia sat in the
swathe of light from the lamp behind the desk, drinking tea and brandy,
looking like an aged tortoise gently falling asleep. Tatischev sneaked
one hand over to his wrist and pushed the sleeve back. It was past
midnight.

"Major?"  He jumped to his feet.

"Yes, Comrade Director-General."

"There is a morning plane to Simferopol, isn't there?"

"Yes, Comrade Director General.  At nine in the morning."

"You will catch it," Kaledin said.

"You will go to the Alexander Nevsky and see Danton.  This is what you
will tell him." The message came through from Turkey late on Sunday
morning.  It reached Grant just as he was going down to lunch in
Hampshire.  It came by special courier from the office in London, where
the duty decoding officer phoned through for a dispatch rider as soon as
he read it. Grant read the message.  It was a long one and it told him
that at least part of the escape had been successful.  Irina Sasanova
and the university tutor were safe in Turkey and would be flown home
that evening.  Davina Graham had not got away; Peter Harrington was a
Russian spy and an officer of the KGB. His identity card was in the
young couple's possession.  Grant folded the message and slipped it in
his pocket.  He was already five minutes late for lunch and he was
meticulous about time.  They hadn't tried to carry on with the
debriefing since Friday.  Sasanov was showing signs of great tension and
anxiety; his concentration had suffered, and it was a waste of time.
Kidson played.  chess with him and parried his demands for news. But
they couldn't be fended off much longer.  He knew they would soon hear
of the success or failure of the operation. Grant was sorry about Davina
Graham.  His regrets were quite impersonal; he had lost an agent and a
colleague and he felt the blow. His imagination did not dwell on what
was happening to her.  Instead it concerned itself with Peter
Harrington, safe in Russia with his masters, joining the elite little
band of Foreign Office traitors living in Moscow, awarded with dachas
and special privileges for betraying their own country. Grant would have
liked very much to resuscitate the old wartime assassination department.
But Harrington would never suffer for what he had done.  Grant opened
his door and hurried down to the dining-room. He apologized to his
colleagues for being late.  As they left the room he stopped Sasanov.

"Come with me," he said.

"We've had news."  The Russian grabbed his arm; Grant was very thin and
the grip hurt him.  He winced.

"Upstairs," he said.

"We can't discuss it here." It was quite impossible, Grant explained
later over the telephone. They couldn't deal with him.  The Brigadier
would have to come down and talk to him himself.  James White apologized
to his wife for disrupting their weekend, and set out for Hampshire.  It
was not going to be easy; if Kidson and Grant between them hadn't been
able to cope with Sasanov, then he had to take the responsibility.  He
frowned as he drove; frantic, was the word Grant had used, and it wasn't
one of his usual adjectives.  His daughter's escape hadn't pacified
Sasanov.  He was ranting and raving about what had happened to Davina
Graham.  Her loss was certainly a dreadful price to pay; he dreaded the
visit to his old friend Captain Graham to tell him that his daughter was
in Russian hands.  He dreaded it, but as soon as he had settled Sasanov
as well as possible, he had to face that duty and go down to Marchwood.
He arrived at the Hampshire mansion in the late afternoon.  He was calm
and composed as always, but there were lines on his face which hadn't
been visible before the weekend.

"Get her back," Ivan Sasanov said, 'or you'll get nothing more from me.
"

"Don't you think we're going to try?"  the Brigadier countered.

"I don't know!"  the Russian said.

"You sent her out because you wanted to dig up your Mole.  You risked
her life for your own purposes, nothing to do with my daughter, and she
sacrificed herself to save Irina.  So you give me Irina like a birthday
present and think it's enough.  It isn't," he said violently.  He stood
facing White; he glared down at him with eyes sunk deep in his head; his
face was grey.

"I will not speak another word to your experts until you get her back."

"You're asking the impossible," James White said.

"And you know it. The only exchange they'll make for her is you.  And
that can't happen. We made a bargain.  If the plan failed you could go
back.  It didn't. Our job was to get your daughter here and we've done
it.  What happened to one of our agents was only incidental to the deal
we made.  "

"Not to me," Sasanov shouted at him.

"Not to me!  You think I will leave Vina in Volkov's hands?  They have
the two people I love my wife and Vina!  You call this operation a
success? It's not a success for me.  " He turned away and dropped into a
chair; he sank his head in his hands. James White waited for a moment,
then he said quietly, "Wait till your daughter gets here.  We only know
the bare facts.  She'll be able to tell us exactly what happened.  Then
we can try and work something out. Will you try to be calm till she
comes?  " He didn't like emotional displays.  The tears running down
Sasanov's face embarrassed him deeply.  He coughed and looked round for
Kidson. He was skilled at dealing with this kind of thing. Kidson came
to the rescue.  He said, "This won't be much of a welcome for your
daughter, after all she's been through.  You should think other."

"I am," Sasanov muttered.

"I'm glad she's safe.  But she'll understand. Russians have hearts,
Brigadier, not like you English.  " James White glanced across at Kidson
and shrugged.

"You've made arrangements to bring them here direct from Heathrow,
haven't you, John?"

"Yes."  Kidson nodded.

"The plane is due in about an hour.  If they land on time we should have
them up here this evening."

"I'll stay," the Brigadier said.

"There's nothing more to be done or talked about, till we know the
position exactly.  I'll leave you, Colonel Sasanov.  We'll talk again
when you've seen your daughter." Kidson came with him to the door and
slipped outside.

"What the devil are we going to do?"  James White whispered to him.

"I don't know," Kidson answered.

"I'm afraid we're in for a very difficult time." The Alexander Nevsky
was a closed ship.  She rode at anchor in the port of Yalta, and except
for armed guards patrolling the decks there was no sign of life.  The
crew had been given shore leave without explanation; the head of the
security services in Yalta had taken command of the ship, and ordered
the captain and his officers to leave.  From the moment the cruise ship
tied up, she became the temporary headquarters of the KGB.  Major
Tatischev was met at Simferopol airport and driven direct to the quay,
where he boarded the ship. In the captain's cabin he met Danton for the
first time, and gave him his orders from Igor Kaledin.  Peter Harrington
looked tired and dishevelled; he hadn't shaved and the beard showed up
on his chin and neck.  Tatischev smelt vodka on his breath, and it was
not even midday.

"I don't want to do it," he said.

"It's too dangerous.  I've given you bloody good service, I'm entitled
to retire."  He slumped in a chair, a cigarette burning between his
fingers. Tatischev regarded him with contempt.  Seedy, unshaven,
probably partly drunk.

"You were entitled to retire," Tatischev said coldly.

"If you hadn't made the most incredible mistake for a professional a
mistake that would disgrace one of our first-year trainees at the
Lenigrad Institute. You ruined the operation," he said flatly.

"You allowed the girl and the tutor to escape.  If you had produced your
authority in time they would have been arrested.  I cannot think why you
should hide something so vital in a woman's handbag."  He saw
Harrington's face redden.

"I think you were drunk- isn't that the truth?"

"No," Harrington shouted, "I wasn't - I told you, it was five in the
morning!

I caught her rooting around my things, and I had to make a quick
decision. There was one more day to go I put the card in the lining of
her bag, precisely because I could make sure she carried it and I could
get hold of it at any moment.  How the hell was I to know she'd lose it
in the one place I couldn't follow?  The lavatory! Somebody pinched it
and threw it overboard when they'd taken her money. It was just the most
damnable luck, that's all.  " He got up and began moving round the
cabin.

"You can put the blame on me," he said.

"But what about your own rotten system of communications?  I sent my
messages through and there wasn't a link up to get back to me.  Fourteen
hours before your end did anything!  How does General Kaledin feel about
that? "

"Stop shouting," Tatischev snapped at him.

"Pull yourself together and listen to me.  General Kaledin is giving you
another chance; he reconizes we were at fault.  But there is one
condition to you going back.  If you break it, he won't forgive you a
second lapse." Harrington glared at him and then sat down; he rubbed his
stubbly chin with the back of his hand.  He started to say something,
and then decided not to.

"What's the condition?"  he asked.

"You don't touch alcohol again," Tatischev said flatly.

"You have done good work for us over the years.  You coped as well as
you could this time, in the circumstances.  So the General is giving you
this chance to redeem yourself.  General Volkov was responsible for the
breakdown in communications.  Now that he's dead, we have to salvage
what we can."

"Heart attack!"  Harrington muttered.

"Just at the crucial moment.  Just my luck..."  He sucked at the remains
of the cigarette and threw it into the metal cuspidor by the side of the
captain's table.

"As things have turned out," the Major repeated, 'we can still bring the
Sasanov affair to a successful conclusion.  You can go back because your
cover is intact.  And you can lead us to him.  There won't be an error
the second time.  In fact," he went on, 'your position with the SIS will
be even stronger.  You will return with your reputation enhanced.  You
underwent questioning; you maintained your cover; your woman colleague
broke down and compromised you both.  You convinced us that there was no
point in holding either of you, because the others had escaped and your
Service would only retaliate by publicizing the defection of Sasanov's
daughter and a tutor from Moscow University with a lot to say about the
so-called plight of dissidents. We have nothing to gain by holding you
and the woman, only a loss efface.  It makes a perfectly convincing
story; the Director-General has worked out the details of it himself. We
will make sure that corroboration leaks back to your Service through
other channels.

"We shall impose a total security black-out on you and the woman, and
fly you back to London.  It will represent a major Intelligence victory
for our enemies.  We're quite content to let them think so, as long as
we have you in place.  You will find Sasanov for us.  We will eliminate
him.  And their victory will consist of two more Russians to be hidden
and supported at their expense.  When that is done, Danton, you will be
brought to the Soviet Union and given the recognition you deserve.  A
further half-million roubles will be credited to your Swiss account. The
money will make your life very comfortable indeed when you are living
here.  "

"It sounds neat enough," Harrington said ungraciously.

"A little too neat.  They're not fools in London, you know.  I'd feel a
lot happier if you kept her here.  I just have a hunch about her, that
she knows how those two got away..."

"She's in the sick-bay now," Tatischev said.

"By the time she is aboard that plane she will be ready to believe
anything you tell her. And you will tell her that she betrayed you.  But
that you managed to talk your way out of it.  She will be completely
discredited in her own mind. There's no question of keeping her in
Russia.  That is the DirectorGeneral's decision.  " He snapped out the
last words.  He looked at his watch.

"You will leave on the two o'clock plane from Simferopol.  I suggest
that you shave and I will have some clothes sent to you.  I am going to
the sickbay now." Harrington didn't answer.  He watched the Russian
stride to the door and close it behind him.  He had to go back.  He
didn't want to go; he wanted to cash in his chips and stay behind, start
the new life he had promised himself.  But Volkov was dead and the
orders came from Igor Kaledin himself. He had to go back and search out
Sasanov for them.  They wouldn't miss a second time.  It made sense of
course; he was too intelligent not to see how the Russian's mind worked.
They didn't want to keep Davina because it might arouse suspicion if
only he returned.  So he had no alternative.  He could twist her inside
out on the journey back.  He knew what being in the sickbay meant. She'd
collapsed completely the second time they locked her into a tiny black
space.  She'd be pumped full of drugs and weak as a rag doll when they
put her on the plane. He got up and sighed; his nerves were jumping and
there was no more vodka. He went outside to the wash-room to clean up
and shave. Davina didn't know the man sitting next to her.  He looked
like someone she had known but confusion distorted him;

sometimes he spoke to her and she answered.  But she had no clear
memory; a second later she'd forgotten every word. It had all started
when they gave her the injection.  She remembered being given an
injection, but rather as if it were a nightmare, a blur of fear and
muddled incidents.  She hadn't wanted the injection but a lot of hands
held her down and the needle went in and she screamed. She had heard
herself screaming in the little dark cupboard, and thought she was back
at Marchwood, locked into the larder as a child, too small to reach the
light switch, unable to push the heavy door. Then the dreams faded and
she was aware of herself, sitting in the plane with the man beside her.
She couldn't remember his name, but there was something. She slept.  She
woke in a daze, letting herself be helped aboard another plane, a big
man half-holding her up on one side; she felt so terribly weak she
wanted to cry.  She must have been very ill to feel like that. She was
back in the seat again, and she knew the man beside her was Peter
Harrington. She tried to shrink away from him, but the seat belt was
tight and she couldn't move.

"Poor old Davy," he said to her.

"You've had a rotten time.  Don't worry; you'll be all right."  She
didn't answer;

she felt she wanted to spit at him but the effort was too much.  He was
right; she did feel dreadful and something horrible was just behind her,
something very frightening.  "It doesn't matter," he was whispering to
her, leaning so close his sour breath was on her face.

"It doesn't matter that you told them..  you couldn't help it."  .  Help
what?  A tear trickled down her cheek.  She raised her hand and found
that at least she could wipe the tears away.  What didn't matter what
had she told them?  She tried to form the words into a question.  She
must have said something because he was talking to her again.

"You told them the truth, Davy.  You told the Russians who we were.  You
couldn't help it.  They gave you a bad time." So they did; the thought
had sudden clarity, cutting through the fog in her mind.  They shut me
up in a tiny, hot black hole.  and then they stuck needles into me.  She
opened her lips and said as clearly as she could to the face leaning
over her, "You bastard."  Then the face swam away and the fog closed in
again.  The suggestions floated on the surface of her mind, seeking
roots.  But another thought was swimming hard for recognition.  I didn't
tell the Russians anything.  he's the traitor; I know he's the traitor.
I don't know how I know but I do know it.  I mustn't believe what he
says.  / must not believe it.  Hold on to that, never mind the fog and
the panic uncurling inside you. Hold on and don't believe him.
Harrington watched her during the first half of the flight;

she was still very much under the influence of the hypnotic drug they
had given her; coupled with strong sedatives to calm her after the
violent attack of claustrophobia, she was very disorientated and sleepy.
But she'd taken in what he had told her; his suggestions would have
dropped into her subconscious and stuck like flies in honey.  When she
was recovered, she'd be convinced of her own guilt.  He settled back to
eat an Aeroflot meal, and drank mineral water. The woman beside him
dozed; he slept a little himself on the last part of the flight to
London.  He had everything worked out, and he was full of confidence.
Good old Harrington - he was coming home as the hero of the expedition.
Major Tatischev was also feeling satisfied.  He had spent some time with
Igor Kaledin, and emerged promoted to Lieutenant-Colonel and attached to
his personal staff.  He went to work in Volkov's office; by the evening
he had shredded every scrap of paper and destroyed every tape connected
with Ivan Sasanov.  The official record was closed after the Halldale
Manor fire; there would never be any evidence that Volkov had known he
was alive and had implemented a plan to get him back to Russia.  Nobody
would ever know that Igor Kaledin had nearly been the victim of a coup.
The role played by Danton went no further than his activities in aiding
the fire-bomb assassins.  No mention was made of Irina Sasanova's flight
or the disappearance ofalexei Poliakov.  They would be officially
recorded as working in separate cities in south-eastern Russia.  When he
finished clearing out the office, he attended to the matter of the
captain and crew of the Alexander Nevsky.  Each man was posted to a
different ship, and the captain himself was promoted to the command of
one of the big Morpasflot ocean-going liners.  The next thing to be done
the following morning was to settle the last detail, close off the final
outlet of Volkov's secret.  Fedya Sasanova, waiting in transit for the
death-camps at Kolyma.

"She'll be all right," Harrington said.

"I'm afraid they got pretty rough with her."  He shook his head.

"I still can't believe we got away," he said. Kidson said gently, "You
worked a miracle to get back, Peter.  We thought you'd both gone down
the drain.  Well done.  The Chief sends his congratulations.  He'll be
along to sit in on the debriefing as soon as you feel up to it."

"I'm fine," Harrington said stoutly.

"They didn't have much of a go at me.  They reckoned poor Davina was the
weak link in the chain.  I just sat under guard and sweated it out.  How
are the love-birds?  How's Sasanov?  " Kidson beamed.

"He's in great form.  The reunion between him and his daughter was quite
moving.  He wants to thank you himself.  I think we might break security
long enough for that," he said.

"That's very nice, very nice indeed," Harrington said.

"I'd like that." Kidson had met them at Heathrow; Davina was taken to a
separate car by a woman Harrington hadn't seen before.  She had her arm
round her and was talking to her very gently.  She looked like a nurse.
Kidson, after shaking hands and congratulating him, drove him from the
airport.  They were going to Hampshire, where he could rest for a few
days and be debriefed. It was a lovely day, and he settled back to enjoy
the drive.  His story was word-perfect; he knew exactly how to tell it,
with the right mixture of self-deprecation and excuse for Davina's
crack-up.  He would be very gallant and defend her hotly if there was
the least criticism. And all the credit for their release was his; he
had convinced Tatischev of the KGB that they had more to lose than gain
by keeping them.  His Service wouldn't rub the Russians' noses in it
over Irina's escape; Poliakov would not give press interviews or discuss
the plight of dissidents in the Soviet Union.  Neither he nor Davina
Graham were of much use to anybody and certainly didn't merit an
exchange.  They were only field operatives, and expendable.  There were
discrepancies, of course.  The KGB were notoriously vindictive when
thwarted.  He had to make their reasons for releasing their two victims
very convincing. The organized leak from the Soviet end would help.  He
hummed a little tune as he looked out on the green English countryside.

"I hope nobody's going to blame Davy," he said earnestly, as they turned
into the gates of the Ministry's training- centre, and the big ugly
building loomed at the end of the drive.

"No question of that," Kidson reassured him.

"She's gone to a nursing-home for a few days; our doctors will check up
on her. She'll be sent on sick leave.  I just hope she hasn't suffered
any permanent psychological damage.  But she's a steady type of girl. As
you say, she'll be all right.  Here we are.  " The car stopped and he
got out.  Harrington followed him.  The mock-medieval front door swung
open and Grant appeared. He came forward and held out his hand.

"Welcome back," he said.

"Well done!"  Harrington winked at Kidson and followed them inside. He
was given a very good lunch, with a fine Chateau- Latour; Harrington
felt he could indulge himself in a few drinks this once, and enthused
over the wine.  Even Grant's sepulchral face twisted into a brief smile
as the conversation flowed between the three of them. There was a choice
of port or brandy and Kidson produced a box of cigars.

"I must say," Harrington grinned, "I feel like the prodigal son!  I just
wish Davina had been with us."

"I'm sure you do," Kidson said.

"I could arrange for some flowers to be sent to her, if you like.  It
might cheer her up."

"Do that, will you thanks very much," Harrington said. Grant looked at
his watch; it looked too big on his bony wrist.

"I think the Chief will be ready for us now," he announced

"Let's go down to the conference room, shall we?" The debriefing took
nearly three hours; Harrington was quite tired at the end of it, and he
felt liverish from the heavy lunch and the wine. Brigadier James White
had done most of the questioning himself.  He was generous in his praise
for the way Harrington had turned a near disaster into triumph.

"You haven't lost your touch," he said.

"You're as good as you ever were, my dear chap.  I don't think we'll
waste you in Personnel again!"  There was a general laugh.

"Thank you, Chief," Harrington said.

"Now I've answered all the questions, I'd like to ask one."

"Of course," James White nodded.  Harrington put on a puzzled
half-smile.

"I didn't see the youngsters leave the ship," he said.

"I heard the announcement that no one was going to be allowed ashore and
I thought, just as I told you Christ, that's done it!  I rushed off to
find them but they weren't there...  How did they get past the guards on
the gangway?" James White slipped a hand into his pocket; he gazed at
Peter Harrington with a quiet smile.  Suddenly there wasn't a sound in
the room.  He took his hand out of his pocket and laid the red identity
card, with its shield and crossed- swords insignia, on the table.

"They used this," he said.

"It seems to belong to you."

"Sit down, Comrade Sasanova," Lieutenant Colonel Tatischev said.

"I hope the journey wasn't too tiring for you?  " Fedya Sasanova gazed
up at him.  She showed no expression; she held her hands folded in her
lap, and waited.  The journey had not been tiring.

She had been taken by train and given a sleeping compartment.  She was
guarded by a woman officer of the KGB who wouldn't tell her where she
was going, but was otherwise friendly and considerate.  Fedya had
learned not to question when things went right.  She had spent long
sickening weeks of anticipation in the transit camp, waiting every day
for the move to the white horror of Kolyma, until her ability to suffer
through anticipation became dulled into a hopeless resignation. She saw
others come and go, and when she was' called out from her hut and told
to get ready for a journey, she bowed her head and whispered goodbye to
the few still waiting, and believed that the journey would be her last.
Now she was in the KGB's headquarters on Dzerzinsky Street, and the
young man was the one who had accompanied Volkov to the mortuary.  He
was being very friendly, and this frightened her.  Fear began to well up
inside her; the unnatural calm of despair was deserting her in the face
of this friendliness. The comfortable chair, the courteous inquiries,
the pleasant smile.  Her heart leaped like a fish on the end of a line.

"How is my daughter?"

"Very well," Tatischev said.

"You don't have to worry about her.  You must wonder why we've brought
you here?  Well, I'll tell you why." He brought his own chair close to
her.

"I have been told to apologize to you, Comrade Sasanova, for a terrible
miscarriage of justice.  The highest authority, General Kaledin himself,
has ordered your release. The Service is not afraid to admit when it's
in the wrong.  You should never have been arrested.  If Comrade Volkov
were still alive, he would be facing the courts for what he did.  " She
looked horribly thin and her skin was the grey-white common to
prisoners. He felt genuinely indignant for her. Her mouth went slack.
She stared at him.

"He's dead?  Antonyii Volkov?" Tatischev nodded.

"A heart attack.  When the authorities examined the records, his
criminal action became known.  You were imprisoned on a false charge a
charge invented by Antonyii Volkov.  You identified your husband's body,
didn't you?"

"Yes," she whispered. He nodded again.

"And you were right-to do so; your husband is dead, and that was his
body that was buried.  You only told the truth, and for this you have
been unjustly punished."

"Will you accept the apologies of the Service?  General Kaledin will see
that you receive the pension awarded to a general's widow.  The rank
will be posthumously conferred on your husband.  A new apartment has
been allotted to you; all your privileges are restored, Comrade
Sasanova.  From now on, you are under the special protection of the KGB.
" She couldn't find any words; she stared at him and her mouth turned
down and began to quiver.  He didn't want her to cry; she was shocked
and weak, and when she realized how generously she'd been treated, her
tears would turn into smiles of gratitude.

"Where is Irina?  Why do I have to change the apartment?  Did Volkov
do anything to her?  "

"No," Tatischev said firmly.

"Your daughter is alive and very well. But you won't be able to
communicate with her.  She can't get in touch with you.  You must take
this on trust, Comrade.  You must trust the Service from now on, and
rely on it without question.  Do you understand that?  "

"Yes," Fedya said at last.

"I understand.  And she is happy?" It cost Tatischev a real effort to
answer without bitterness.

"I think so.  That's all I can tell you.  You must be content with that.
" She didn't say anything for some moments.  She was released; Volkov
was dead, and the authorities wanted Sasanov to be dead too.  She would
be rewarded for the lie instead of punished, because official policy had
changed.  Irina had vanished.  But she was well, and there was some
thing angry in Tatischev's eyes when he said that he thought she was
happy.  It was just possible, like a gleam of dazzling sunlight behind a
storm-cloud, that Irina had got to the West.  She would believe that,
and one day she might find out if it was true. She said, "I'm very
grateful, Colonel.  I'm very honoured to be under your protection.  I
bear no ill-will for what happened to me." He gave her a warm smile and
squeezed her hand.

"I have a personal contribution to make to you, Comrade," he said
kindly.

"You have a pass to spend two weeks in the sanatorium at Alupka.
Treatment and rest will restore your health.  The arrangements will
include a flight to the Crimea and back.  I hope you enjoy it." He came
down to the front of the offices with her, supporting her with a hand
under her arm.  An official car was waiting and took her to the select
apartment complex in the suburbs of Moscow reserved for the Party elite.
She felt well enough to buy summer clothes by the end of the week.  She
boarded the flight to Simferopol and was met by another official car,
then driven to the splendid resort of Alupka and the sanatorium reserved
for high Party officials and their families.  She carried a little ikon
of Saint Nicholas the miracle-worker, given to her by a fellow-prisoner
in the transit camp.  It was crude and the paint was worn away in
places, where the devout had held it in their hands when they prayed.
Fedya kept it hidden, and slept with it under her pillow.  The woman who
gave it to her had gone to Kolyma. She had been a practising Christian.

"I'm glad to see you looking so well," the Brigadier said.

"I've had a long leave," Davina answered. He smiled his genial smile.

"You earned it, my dear.  I gather you won't have any more problems; our
doctor was very pleased with the way you pulled out of it all.  March-
wood must have been lovely this time of year.  How's your mother's
garden?"

"Full of flowers, as usual," she said.

"She believes it's because she talks to them.  I've never been able to
grow even a potted plant."

"She's a wonderful person," he remarked.

"She knows how to manage your father; I had a lot of stick from him
about what happened to you.  He was threatening to sue the Ministry and
go to his MP and God knows what else!  She calmed him down, though.  I
don't suppose you knew about all the fuss."

"I didn't," she admitted.

"I'd no idea my father would take it like that.  He's never been
over-fond of me."

"That's a sad thing to say," James White remarked.

"And not true either.  He doesn't show his feelings; you're rather alike
in that way. But he cares very much for you, and I ought to know it. I'm
afraid our friendship will never be the same.  He won't forgive me for
sending you out.

"That's not fair," Davina said quietly.

"I wanted to go.  I'll try and explain it to him.  I just didn't talk
about it to either of them.  My mother never asked a question.  She just
gathered me up and spoiled me to death for the whole two months.  I felt
like a little girl who's had measles."  She laughed.

"Perhaps I should have talked about it, but I didn't want to worry her.
I didn't think she'd understand and she'd just get fussed and
frightened.  Same thing with my father.  He was very kind too; I
shouldn't have said that about not being fond of me.  He really did his
best.  Breakfast tray in my room, lots of red wine because my mother'd
said to him I looked anaemic.  The funny thing was, Sir James, my sister
Charley was the only person who asked me what happened and made me tell
her.  I didn't want to, but she went on and on.  She's the most
persistent girl I've ever known.  And she always gets her own way.  So I
told her.  I told her every damned thing.  And do you know what she did?
"

"No," he prompted.

"What did she do?"

"Burst into tears," Davina said.

"Threw her arms round me and cried like a cloud-burst.  I ended up
having to comfort her.  Anyway, I'm back now, and getting very bored.
When are you going to let me come back to work?"

"That's what I wanted to discuss with you," James White said.

"I thought a quiet lunch was a good way of doing it.  You do look well,
but you also look depressed.  Are you?  "

She stiffened.

"Not in the least.  Please, we've had the psychiatric stuff.  I hope I'm
not going to be dogged by this sort of thing."

"Not at all," he answered.

"But if you're not depressed, why are your eyes full of tears?  Use your
handkerchief Davina, and don't be silly. You're not the only person in
the world who isn't happy.  "

"I know that," she said.

"Believe me I'm so angry with myself- I hate self-pity.  It's just that
I need something to do, to take my mind off things."

"That's exactly what Sasanov says."  He said it quite casually.  He saw
her face flood with colour.

"He's complaining about being bored, restless.  His daughter and that
chap Poliakov got married, you know.  I think he misses them."

"Yes."  She opened her bag and fiddled with her cigarettes and lighter.

"I expect he does...  And there's no news of his wife, I suppose? That
really haunts me.  now I know what they can do to people.  "

"Well, there is news actually," he continued.

"Would you mind too much waiting till we have coffee before you smoke?
Thank you they are a little old-fashioned in the Club dining-room.  Yes,
there is news, as I was saying.  She was released from prison, and
apparently she's being treated very well.  It took some time to filter
through to us, but very generous amends seem to have been made.  She's
on what's called the KGB special list.  That means she's under their
protection and woe betide anyone who even gives her a parking-ticket.
There's no question of her leaving, of course.  We'll try and let her
know her daughter's safe and happy by the same little route that brought
us news of her.  So you needn't worry about her any more.  We were able
to set Sasanov's mind at rest."

"I'm very glad," Davina said.

"Sir James, you haven't answered my question?  When can I come back to
work?"

"You can't," he said.

"Unless you tear this up."  He slid the envelope towards her, and her
hand trembled as she opened it.

"Under Section 4, sub-section 21, I, Davina Claire Graham do solemnly
undertake never to see or.  communicate or cause communication to be
made "  She said to him in a breaking voice, "What do you mean?  For
God's sake, what do you mean, tear it up..."

"I mean that you can't have your old job back unless we get rid of that
piece of paper.  You do want to come back and look after Sasanov, don't
you?  At least I hope you do.  The man's impossible without you. Here's
our coffee.  You can smoke now if you like.  That's a nice smile, my
dear.  I think I'll have a cigar.  "

"He's upstairs," Humphrey Grant said.

"The Chief said we weren't to tell him.  He wants it to be a surprise."
His expression conveyed his distaste for the Brigadier's little charade.
Davina walked through the vaulted Victorian great hall of the officers'
training school.  A young man in battle fatigues glanced at her as she
crossed his path.  The ugly mahogany staircase rose up in front of them,
flanked by profusely carved heraldic lions, with the all-too-recent
coats of arms painted and gilded on shields between their forepaws.
Grant thought she looked strange; he couldn't have called any woman
attractive.  Her hair was longer and loose, she seemed much younger;

there was a girlish expectancy about her that he thought positively
unbecoming in a woman of mature age.

"Upstairs," he repeated.

"I'll lead the way." The room was at the end of a wide corridor.  Grant
opened the door and stood back.  Davina stepped past him and into the
room.  Sasanov was reading; he didn't look up.  He said, "If it's you,
Kidson, I don't want to play chess. Leave me alone."

"I can't play chess," Davina said. Grant told John Kidson about it
afterwards.  He needed a drink, he said, to get the taste of all that
awful sentimental rubbish out of his mouth.

"They literally rushed at each other," he exclaimed.

"He jumped out of the chair and ran at her with his arms wide open, and
she threw herself into his embrace, and then thank Heaven I shut the
door.  I could hear their voices laughing and talking all down the
corridor.  I gather they want dinner upstairs and champagne!  I hope the
Chief knows what he's doing."  He pursed his thin lips.

"She seemed such a proper type of woman," he said.

"You'd never believe she could behave like that." John Kidson didn't
answer; he only smiled.