Albatross (13 page)

The food was simple. Madame Zerkhova presided over the table, helped by an impassive member of the Presidential Guard in mess orderly's uniform. Watching him serve them, Borisov was reminded of the old Preobrazhensky Guard, the troops who guarded the Tsar since the days of Peter the Great. Times changed, he thought, but Russia remained the same. He was a scholar of Russian history; unlike the arch-Puritan Rudzenko, Borisov saw much that was glorious in his country's pre-Lenin past. They drank vodka with the cold hors d'œuvres and the borsch. Zerkhov drank heartily, pushing the bottle towards his guest, anticipating the guardsman as he moved to help them. Unlike Stalin, who toasted his rivals in plain water while they succumbed to 90 per cent pure alcohol, the present ruler of Russia enjoyed drinking and eating. He liked the fresh Crimean wines which went with a homely mutton stew, heavily spiced. The talk was general; his genial wife had little to say but trivialities; she had a motherly smile and showed her fondness for her husband, quoting little anecdotes of their early life. There was a close bond between them, Borisov decided. They had shared the hard years and the dangers that followed when Zerkhov was ambitious and climbing towards power. She might indulge herself in Paris-made dresses in private, but nothing the cleverest dressmaker could do disguised the strong mother image of the Russian peasant woman. He thought of his own wife, and envied Zerkhov his marriage.

When the dinner was finished, Madame Zerkhova got up and said good night.

‘We will sit here,' the old man said to the orderly. ‘Bring Turkish coffee and brandy.' He said to Borisov,' I miss the old table in the kitchen with the samovar always alight. But this does as well.' And he laughed.

‘I admire your taste in pictures,' Borisov said.

‘I like the Renoir best,' Zerkhov admitted. ‘He gives peace; looking at his pictures is like having a gentle dream. Manet is more powerful, not so soothing. I hate Van Gogh; his madness screams at you from the canvas.'

‘Still you have two,' Borisov countered.

The old man shrugged silently. ‘Only to please Anna, she likes them. She does not like Picasso except in the Blue Period, so I keep those in my office up here. I like contemporary art, but it's more difficult to collect without arousing criticism. I have been waiting to get a very good Francis Bacon for nearly two years, but the owner still won't sell. It's an American.' He chuckled. ‘They wouldn't like to know it would end up here,' he said. ‘Put another bottle of brandy on the table, Ivan, and you can go. Good night.'

The orderly saluted, ramrod stiff, never looking directly at the President. The guard were the crack troops in the regular army. There was no love between them and Borisov's militia. There was silence for a while; both men drank the sweet thick Turkish coffee and emptied the first bumper of brandy.

‘That's the difference between us,' Zerkhov said suddenly. ‘I believe in the modern world. Rudzenko hates it. I believe that we are progressing, that while we overtake our enemies we have a lot to learn from them and put to use. He sees nothing good after 1953.'

‘And nothing good before 1917,' Borisov remarked. ‘He would like to petrify Russia like a fly in amber, from Lenin to Stalin's death.'

‘Yes,' the old man sighed. ‘When Braminsky died, he gave his hat to Rudzenko. Unfortunately it fits him better than it did Anatoly. You spoke very skilfully today, Igor; he won't forgive you for making him look a doctrinaire fool. Every time he tries to attack me, you rip a piece off his reputation as a responsible politician. Your exposition of the Polish situation was a masterpiece. You've become cruel as well as subtle.'

‘Would you rather I changed?' Borisov asked him. The alliance between them had grown up through Borisov's first failure when he took over the KGB. He had never forgotten the advice of Natalia then, when he faced ruin. ‘Tell him the truth. Go to him as a father.' He had done exactly that, and he asked now, as a son would to his father. ‘I want your criticism, Peter Petrovitch. Tell me.'

The heavy-lidded eyes opened a little; the first bottle of brandy was nearly empty, but the eyes were bright, their look intense.

‘I have no criticism, only a suggestion. More subtlety, more cruelty. Attack as often as he gives an opening. Matters must come to a head before the meeting of the Supreme Soviet in the autumn.'

Borisov put the glass down, wishing he hadn't kept pace with Zerkhov. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. ‘If that's what you want, I'll make sure it's done,' he said. ‘But why? Surely we don't want an internal crisis at the moment? Poland –'

‘Will explode before the end of the year!' The interruption cut across him. ‘That is what Rudzenko is hoping for, and that's what he is trying to initiate. He has allies in the Stalinist clique in Poland. They will force an uprising, and overthrow Jaruzelski. And that, Igor, my friend, is when Rudzenko will make his bid for power. At my expense.' The heavy head tilted forward on its short neck like a turtle leaving the shell. ‘And yours. You won't keep your place a month after Rudzenko wins. In fact, I wouldn't give much for your life, either, or mine. He would bring back the old ways, don't you think? The state trial, the confession in public – and click!' He snapped his fingers like a pistol shot.

‘He won't win,' Borisov said. ‘If I thought there was any danger of that –' He stopped himself in time, and the old, cunning face opposite him twitched once.

And Zerkhov said softly, ‘What would you do, Igor Igorovitch?'

‘I would stop him,' Borisov answered quietly. ‘I will stop him. He'll never harm a hair of your head.' He wasn't aware of the fierce emotion in his voice. A gleam of genuine affection passed from the old man to the young one, and Borisov said in a very low voice, ‘I am your man. Leave him to me.'

‘That is what I'm going to do,' came the answer. ‘But not yet, my son.' The last two words hung in the air. Borisov felt a prick of tears in his eyes and a wild exultation in his heart. My son. He knew what that meant in terms of his future. ‘I will tell you when,' the voice went on, flat and droning. ‘I am no Stalinist. I don't believe in paddling in my comrades' blood.' For a moment he paused. ‘I won't give you the order unless I must; you can believe that. But I know there is no choice.'

‘How?' Borisov felt bold enough to ask anything. ‘How do you know?'

‘Because of what I have discovered,' Zerkhov said. He got up from the table; he was slow but perfectly steady. ‘We'll relieve ourselves first. Then I will explain everything to you.'

‘I suppose,' James White said reflectively, ‘that I should have expected to lose Davina in the end – but you know how it is. One takes people like that for granted.'

Tony Walden eyed him across the table and said, ‘Does one? I don't, Sir James.'

‘But then she hasn't been with you for more than a few months, has she?' he countered. ‘Davina worked as my secretary for twelve years. It was a great shock to lose her. Tell me, Anthony – does she really like advertising?'

‘Tony,' Walden corrected him. ‘Yes, I think she quite enjoys it. I hope so, anyway.'

White smiled pleasantly at him. ‘You obviously intend to keep her,' he murmured. ‘What a pity. I may still try and tempt her back.'

‘Try by all means.' Walden's answering smile was bleak.

The hostility between him and James White had begun immediately they met. Their host, who had obliged Sir James by arranging the party, cursed them inwardly for spoiling it. He had never seen Tony Walden in such an aggressive mood. Normally he radiated charm on social occasions, especially if there were important fellow guests. This time he was far from charming. He contradicted everything James White said during dinner, and bristled openly when the subject of his assistant Davina Graham was mentioned when the men were sitting alone with their port. It was as if Sir James were deliberately baiting him. His remarks grew milder and yet more provocative, accompanied by that eternal empty smile that was a sort of insult in itself, as if he were talking to someone very stupid who had to be humoured. Their host decided to break in and ease the atmosphere. ‘She must be a real treasure, this lady,' he said in a jolly voice. ‘I've got a lovely girl working for me as a temp at the moment. Not a brain in her head, and has to be told everything twice. Thank God my regular girl comes back from holiday next week! Now, Tony, how are your negotiations with the prince getting along?'

‘What prince?' Sir James inquired. ‘Ah,' he said, hearing the name. ‘And what do you intend promoting for him, Anthony?'

‘His country,' Walden answered. ‘And for the second time, Sir James, please call me Tony.'

‘I'm sorry,' he apologized. ‘I hate to shorten a good Christian name.'

‘In my case you needn't worry,' Walden answered. ‘I happen to be Jewish.'

‘Oh, Christ,' the host murmured to himself. ‘I'm going to cut this short. I think,' he announced, rising from his chair, ‘that we'll join Julia; she doesn't like being left with the girls too long.'

The Whites excused themselves before midnight; they had to drive down to Kent, Mary White explained. Both were profuse in their thanks for a lovely evening and Sir James made a point of going up to Walden and shaking hands.

‘So nice to have met you at last,' he said. ‘And good luck with putting the kingdom on the map! Give my love to Davina – perhaps my regards might be more appropriate.' He turned away before Walden could think of a retort.

‘Well,' Mary White turned to her husband in the car, ‘was it worth it?'

‘Yes, I think so. Didn't you enjoy it, dear? I thought you looked rather bored once or twice.'

‘Bored to tears,' she retorted. ‘Except when you were scoring points off that man Walden – he's an odd sort, don't you think?'

‘I know what
I
think,' Sir James said, ‘but I'd like to know why you say he's odd. He's very successful, a bit flashy, Cartier watch and all that kind of thing. Rather aggressive, on the defensive.' He was almost musing now, as if he'd forgotten about his wife's opinion. ‘Not at all smooth, as I'd expected. But why odd?'

‘Because he
isn't
smooth,' Mary pointed out. ‘People like that make an effort; after all, charm is part of their business. He looks the part, just as you say, but somehow he doesn't fit into it. You said he was born in Poland. You wouldn't know
where
exactly.'

‘He said he was Jewish,' White remarked. ‘I wonder whether Prince Ahmed knows that he's employing a Jew?'

‘Now, James,' she switched the car into top gear as they left London, ‘you're not going to ruin the poor man's business just because you're annoyed about Davina!'

‘Not unless I have to,' he said gently. ‘He was very touchy about her, wasn't he?'

‘You both were,' his wife said.

‘I have reason to be,' Sir James said. ‘She was one of my most valuable operatives. I had great things in mind for her. She behaved very badly, for the second time.'

‘I imagine she'd say the same about you,' his wife said. ‘I thought Walden was a bit too on edge about her, if she is just his assistant. He seemed to take it all personally.'

‘He did indeed.' The brigadier smiled in the darkness. ‘Wife's very beautiful, too.…'

‘Beautiful, and thick as two planks,' Mary White retorted. ‘She's an accessory, like the watch, that's all.'

‘Hmm. They hardly said a word to each other the whole evening. An accessory, that's very clever of you, dear.' Privately he thought his wife had been a little sharp in her judgement of Mrs Walden. Now that he had met Tony Walden, he was convinced that his instincts about Davina Graham's job were right. Something was going on. He knew her too well to accept the obvious explanation that she and Walden were having an affair. She wasn't the type to involve herself with two men at once. He knew how devoted she was to Colin Lomax. She had taken a highly paid job, which was quite out of character. So was the man she worked for. Self-made, alien, an aggressive type that instantly made James White's conservative hackles rise. Davina had been schooled in secrecy. She would never fit happily into a world of publicity and promotion like the Arlington Agency. She belonged in the brigadier's world, at the end of a string attached to his finger. He would teach Mr Anthony Walden a lesson in manners and not taking what didn't belong to him. He settled into his seat and dozed till the car pulled up in front of the house.

‘I think you'll find this welcome news,' the governor said. ‘You're leaving us, Harrington.'

Harrington stared at him for a second and then said, ‘I am? Where am I going, sir?' His knees felt suddenly weak as if they might buckle under him.
Leaving
. Davina had said they'd shelved the whole thing.…

He heard the governor say, ‘Shropwith. It's an open prison; very nice country up there. It's a good sign for your parole prospects, by the way. The Home Office doesn't send a man there unless they're well disposed towards a parole at some later date. I may say, Harrington, I put in a good report about you.'

‘Thank you, sir.' Harrington had control of himself. He managed a big friendly smile and said, ‘I won't say I'm sorry to leave, but I've made friends. I'll miss them. I'd like to thank you for all you've done to help me rehabilitate myself, sir. I shan't forget it.'

‘That's what my job is all about,' the governor said briskly. ‘Helping a man to get back on the right road. One word of advice. I know the governor of Shropwith. He's a very fine chap, but he runs the place on trust. He never gives a man a second chance if he lets him down. So stick close to the rules, Harrington. Anyway, I'll see you before you go.'