Albatross (21 page)

Now, thankfully, he could put that idea aside. He put the file she had left in his briefcase and set off for home.

Yuri Rudzenko studied the private autopsy report on the dead girl. It had been done the night before she was cremated. Suicide by drugs and alcohol. He noted the contents of the stomach; she had choked to death while unconscious. There were slight marks on her arms, a bruise from a love bite on her throat, made within hours of her death. Some minor lacerations of the scalp, as if she had been held by her hair. They would do that, he mused, to avoid heavy bruising if she struggled. Some discolourations around the nose, indicative of force being used. They had pinched her nostrils to make her open her mouth. Then they poured in the vodka and the pills. He put the grim document aside. The love bite proved that she had been with Borisov. The autopsy also mentioned that she had been in sexual congress that same night. Borisov had slept with her and then left her with his executioners. Rudzenko grimaced in disgust.

He was a sexual prude as well as a political purist. He hated and despised the corruption of the younger generation, the weakness of old comrades like Zerkhov. He saw the corrosion of the iron ideals and selfless dedication to the cause of Marxist Leninism creeping like a poison through Soviet life and into the Eastern Bloc countries. Only East Germany remained unsullied by the moral turpitude that reached a climax in Poland. Religion, that detestable fraud designed to bribe the people with promises of bliss after death – Rudzenko hated all religions. He chafed at the thought of churches open in Russia, even though the congregations were old grandmothers and a few young people led astray. He longed to repress the intransigent Muslims within the Soviet borders, to crush the tiny groups of Baptists who resisted the State and served as propaganda for the West. He ached to purge the rottenness he saw and restore his country to its old inflexible attitudes where compromise was punished like treason. He had never feared Stalin. He had a clear conscience; only the guilty needed to cower when the Iron Man's eye considered them. Yuri Rudzenko had helped draw up the list for the great Army purge. He had applauded the genocide of the Ukrainians when they refused to accept the strictures of the Five Year Plan. He had witnessed interrogations, trials and executions with the conviction of a man stamping out the plague.

And he believed that only a return to the past would save Russia and the world from an American victory. Because he saw war as inevitable; it was a necessary part of world revolution. The Great War had produced the Bolshevik triumph. A global war would give birth to a world where the old, sick values were swept away and the stern society of Lenin's vision would encompass the earth.

He pushed the autopsy away. He felt no twinge of compassion for the girl. He'd scarcely known her except as a face in Borisov's office and a source of vital information. He would miss that badly. Her death and her suffering meant nothing to him. Only Borisov's physical indulgence with her before having her murdered offended his sense of propriety. But without Natalia he was cut off temporarily from the minds of his enemies.

How had she been discovered? That was what mattered now. He had agents close to Borisov in the KGB. Borisov had men in his own Ministry. Everyone surveyed each other; that was understood. But he must know who had denounced Natalia. Borisov would need a new secretary. Rudzenko judged that this time he would choose a man. He consigned the report to the shredding machine in his office. She had been cremated and her ashes scattered. He would never think of Natalia again.

The van containing Sam's body drove into a scrap yard in the East End of London. It was met there by the third member of the team who had driven the green Cortina back after Sam and Harrington had changed over. There was a consultation and a decision made by the evening. The van doors were securely padlocked, and it was driven to a dump in the early hours of the next morning. There a friend arranged its disposal by crane on top of a fortyfoot heap of rusting, shattered cars; wrecks from accidents, abandoned breakdowns past repair. It came to rest securely and gently, high up where the weather would strip its paint and the body inside would moulder away undetected. The two men went their ways. Without Sam, they decided it was safer never to do a job together again.

‘James?' Mary White put down her evening paper as her husband came into their sitting room from the little hall. They spent two nights a week in London, rather against her will. He declared it too tiring to commute up and down to Kent and she didn't like leaving him to look after himself.

‘Have you seen the paper? That wretched man has escaped!'

He came into the room and said mildly, ‘Yes, dear, I know. I don't rely on the press for information of that kind.'

‘No need to be sharp with me,' his wife retorted. She had never stood any nonsense from her husband and he liked her all the better for it. ‘I'm sure it's a blow to you, but it's hardly your responsibility. Have a glass of sherry.'

He helped himself and sat beside her. ‘It is my responsibility,' he said. ‘That bloody fool Humphrey had Harrington moved to an open prison.'

‘What? Why? Without telling you?'

He settled into the sofa and sipped his sherry. He looked rather tired suddenly. ‘He's been engaged in a bit of private snooping,' he said quietly. ‘Very unorthodox. Not like Humphrey at all.'

Mary White put her paper aside. She knew instinctively when something serious had happened. ‘James, what sort of snooping?'

‘It seems that evidence was put in front of him that pointed to a mole in the office,' he answered. ‘He decided to take Davina into his confidence and start an investigation on the quiet. Part of it consisted of her seeing Harrington to persuade him to help. In return, a transfer was arranged for him to Shropwith. You can imagine why, of course.'

‘So he could get away,' his wife said. ‘Of course. And they did this without telling you?'

‘Davina resigned, precisely so she could work without my knowledge,' he answered. ‘She got herself into that job with Walden to put us all off the scent. It was all rather clumsy, when you look at it. Humphrey puts in a word to the Home Office about moving Harrington, and it coincides with Davina pretending to Humphrey that she's dropped the whole thing.'

‘For heaven's sake,' Mary interrupted, ‘why did she do that?'

‘Apparently she'd found out enough to think the mole might even be him. Apart from John Kidson, and myself, of course.'

His wife stared hard at him and then made a little snort of impatience. ‘What absolute damned rubbish! I've never heard of anything like it. You should get rid of him at once. And put that young woman firmly in her place. How dare they!' She never swore except in moments of extremity and ‘damn' was the ultimate.

He smiled at her and said, ‘Mary dear; there
is
a traitor. I've spent the afternoon looking at the evidence Davina found. There's no possible doubt. Someone has been working against the Service for the last fifteen years or so. Or it's been made to appear so. That did occur to me.'

‘Tell me how,' she said. She had stopped being angry for him. She became worried instead. ‘I'll get you another sherry,' she said and did so hurriedly.

‘Davina got hold of the files of various top-level operations. They stretch back a long time. They've been doctored. Sections are missing, and it's been very skilfully done. You see, she started by photographing, and if she hadn't been as clever or as observant as she is, she wouldn't have seen that the serial numbers on the pages were out of sequence. She wouldn't have discovered the deception from the photographs. The numbers are too high up, away from the script. It took me some time to see it myself.'

‘Oh Lord,' his wife said after a pause. ‘How awful. What are you going to do?'

‘I'm not sure,' he answered. ‘Harrington's escape has probably slammed the door on the investigation. He gave her the code name, Albatross. He obviously knew a lot more. Now he's on his way to Moscow. They lifted him just in time.'

‘Then doesn't it seem odd that Humphrey fixed it up?' she said quietly.

‘Not if you reckon that he and Davina were acting unofficially,' he said. ‘Letting Harrington go would have to be part of any deal they made with him. Only there hasn't been a deal, so far as Humphrey knows. He's in a very bad position, poor chap. No chance of taking over from me after this, I'm afraid.' He put down the empty glass. ‘Nor John Kidson either. He's quite a suspect too, you know. I'm not Albatross,' he smiled, and added, ‘I'm glad you didn't actually ask me that, but I'm not. And I don't think Humphrey is either. He's been so incredibly inept over the whole thing. So that leaves Kidson.'

She looked at him and said, ‘Not just Kidson. What about Davina Graham? How do you know it isn't her?'

‘I don't,' he admitted. ‘I don't know anything until I've proved it. But the idea had occurred to me. Not very seriously though. I have a nose for deceit, my dearest, and it's seldom wrong. She is in pursuit, make no mistake. Mostly because she thinks, or rather hopes, that Albatross is me!' He gave a loud chuckle. ‘She's going to be so disappointed when I find him first.'

‘Charlie! Where are you?'

Her voice echoed from upstairs. ‘Here, darling, putting Fergie to bed. Come up.' He hurried up the short flight of steps and into the nursery. Charlie had had it decorated in what she described as unisex, suitable for a boy or a girl. Bright primrose yellow with splashes of apple green. It was a charming room that seemed to be sunny on the dullest day. The baby was lying kicking in his cot; Charlie didn't believe in swathing babies in blankets and shawls. Fergus Kidson wore a warm all-over suit called a babygro, and kicked and stretched until he fell asleep. John came up to his wife, put his arm round her and kissed her.

‘Isn't he growing like you?' she said.

‘No, my darling, I'm glad to say he isn't. He's the image of you, red hair and all. He's a grand little fellow – look at him smiling!'

‘That's wind,' Charlie teased him. ‘You're home early.'

‘It's been quite a hectic day,' he said. ‘I want to tell you about it. Is Teresa in tonight?' The Belgian student who helped look after Fergus had a busy social life; John sometimes felt that she should pay them for baby-sitting.

‘Yes, she is. Are we going out?'

He squeezed her. ‘I think it might be nice. Let's go and have dinner at that place by the Thames – it's had a good write-up recently. It's a lovely evening, we might be able to sit outside.'

‘All right, why not?' She loved doing things on the spur of the moment. ‘I'll go and change into something nice.'

He held her a moment longer and said, ‘You look beautiful just as you are.'

Charlie bent down and kissed the baby. ‘You be a good boy,' she admonished, ‘and go to sleep. Your mummy and daddy are going out on the town. Are we celebrating something, darling?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Yes, we are. I'll tell you about it while you're getting dressed.'

The restaurant overlooked the Thames; they decided to sit inside instead of under the awning because a slight breeze was blowing in from the river and John was worried that she might get cold. The dinner was excellent; he ordered a good claret and Charlie blossomed to suit his mood. It was nice that so many people stared at her; it made him feel so proud that she belonged to him, and that other men could only look and envy. Charlie smiled at him over her coffee cup; she had the most impudent, seductive smile in the world. He longed to take her home to bed.

‘So there's nothing to worry about,' she said. ‘Thank goodness, darling. You look a different person tonight.'

‘I feel it,' he admitted. ‘It's all worked out perfectly. Humphrey's ruined himself, going behind the Chief's back, making such an incredible balls-up that a traitor like Harrington is allowed to escape. And your sister – oh, Charlie, she really put two fingers up to the old man today – talk about abrasive. He'll never let her cross the door again, even if she begged to come back.'

‘So you believe the way is clear for you, now,' Charlie said. She could imagine Davina's entrance and exit from his description. She was very different now from the repressed and diffident woman Charlie had been able to put to flight with a single derisory remark.

‘I know it is,' he said. ‘It has to be. The other two have wrecked their chances. That leaves me home and dry. You know, I owe it all to you, darling. You made me see how much I wanted that job.'

‘You were pretty cross to start with,' she reminded him. ‘You told me I hadn't any morals. That was very naughty.' She giggled.

‘Nor have you,' he said. ‘You're the original Eve. You'd take the apple every time and make the poor idiot of a man eat it with you. I'd fooled myself for years that I had no further to go in the Service. You made me see the truth. I wanted the Chief's job, but I wasn't prepared to fight for it.'

‘You certainly fought hard from then on,' she remarked. ‘Did you mean to put suspicion on Humphrey – when you hinted he'd let Harrington go to an open prison on purpose?'

Kidson frowned. ‘I didn't say it deliberately. It just came out. He did get Harrington transferred. Nothing alters that.'

Charlie held out her cigarette to be lit. ‘Do you think he is the mole? I can't take it seriously when they're called that, I keep thinking of those soft, furry things that dig up the garden. Could it be him?'

‘We'll never know now,' Kidson said. ‘Harrington was the key; that's why the Russians got him out in such a hurry. Normally they play about with exchanges. The last top agent they sprang out of jail was Blake; that was years ago. I don't honestly think it matters, darling.'