Albatross (33 page)

‘Kidson,' he murmured. ‘How could it be? John Kidson …'

‘I've been trying to answer that myself,' she said. ‘He married my sister, crept into my family … and found out where Ivan and I were living. All he needed was proximity. An Australian stamp, a bit of envelope. My father thought he destroyed my letters. He wouldn't be able to hide them from a professional like John. Oh God, what a sickening bloody disaster.…'

She saw James White pick up the internal telephone. ‘Get me a glass of brandy somewhere, will you? Yes, of course there is – I know Personnel keeps something for emergencies.' He said kindly to Davina, ‘That aspect is distressing for you, I know.'

‘I never thought Harrington would be killed,' she said. ‘I set him up for them. I find that pretty distressing too.'

‘Well, you mustn't,' he said firmly. ‘The KGB have saved us a lot of trouble. I needn't remind you of how much pity he showed you when the positions were reversed. Remember that, if you feel guilty. Personally, I think it's the best possible solution to an embarrassing situation. Here's your brandy. Drink that up, it'll make you feel better.'

‘You've got to arrest him,' she said. ‘He was still at home when we left.'

‘You think he'd make a run for it? He wouldn't get far.'

Davina hesitated. ‘I'm not sure. Thanks for the brandy, Chief. He thinks he's going to get your job, he's dead set on it. The last thing we talked about was him taking over from you. He was trying to persuade me to drop the investigation. He must have known Peter would be taken care of. Maybe he won't run. Maybe he'll play it by ear and see what happens. He wants the top job – it would be worth the risk.'

‘It might be as well to let him think he's got away with it,' James White said. ‘We can play for time, too.' I'll call Marchwood to see if he's still there. Why don't you go home, Davina? I'll let you know developments.'

She said, ‘You know I thought it was you.'

He nodded. ‘Of course you did. I hope you're not too disappointed. By the way, the little subterfuge with the Balkan Sobranie cigarettes wasn't quite up to your usual standard.'

‘Why not?' She got up, paused. She had forgotten about that. And about Humphrey Grant.

‘Because I knew Harrington used to smoke them. Also that your friend Walden was responsible for a big advertising campaign a few months ago. One couldn't escape the advertisements.'

‘Did you go to Arlington Agency?' she asked him. ‘I was sure you would.'

‘No, but we did pay a visit to Walden's flat in Grosvenor Square. He wasn't best pleased.'

‘You really are a bastard, aren't you?' she said quietly. ‘You knew perfectly well he wasn't hiding Harrington there.'

He looked innocently at her. ‘I had to make sure,' he said. ‘After all, we've been keeping an eye on his offices, just in case. And it seems that Humphrey did have you followed last night. There was a frightful commotion at some hotel catering for Middle Eastern gentlemen when the Special Branch swooped on them this morning. Do you have your car?'

‘No,' Davina said. ‘As a matter of fact, Tony Walden brought me here. He's waiting outside. And he never mentioned anything about this morning!'

‘How very thoughtful of him,' James White said blandly. ‘I shall apologize to him in person. Now, I had better get Humphrey to sort out this little mess at the Ritz. While I take my old colleague John Kidson into my confidence.' She stared at him and he said, ‘Twenty years of treachery. He'll pay for it. You can be sure of that.'

There was no report in any of the papers. The first shift of cleaners at the Ritz found nothing but their equipment in the broom cupboard. Sir James's men had taken control of the situation very quickly. The murdered waiter was found in a West London street after a hit-and-run accident. The occupant of Suite A who died of a heart attack was removed by a back entrance; Fraser's employees went home after a signed undertaking not to mention anything to anyone on pain of prosecution under the Official Secrets Act.

John Kidson joined Humphrey in a meeting at the office later that Saturday night. Sir James amazed them by bringing out a bottle of whisky and offering each of them a drink.

‘Poor Davina,' he said. ‘I saw her early on. The whole thing failed completely. Borisov's people got to Harrington and took him out. Not out of the country, either.' He gave both of them a smug look. ‘Saved us a lot of trouble,' he said. ‘And put the lady well in her place. She won't set out on her own again. Even if someone was foolish enough to suggest it.' For a moment he withered Humphrey and then turned aside.

‘And Albatross?' Kidson demanded. ‘What about that?'

‘Nothing,' James White answered. ‘She couldn't solve the puzzle without Harrington. Now, I'm afraid, it will be up to us to settle it. Internally, as we always do.'

‘How did they find Harrington?' Humphrey asked slowly. The question hung like a fireball in the air.

‘Does it matter?' Kidson said irritably. ‘She was probably followed – careless in some way. The point is, there's still suspicion. It's got to be cleared up.' He looked obstinate, as if he expected to be opposed.

‘It will be, in due time,' Humphrey said. ‘We don't want a scandal. Davina would have caused one. We have to keep our troubles to ourselves.'

‘Spoken like a good member of the Firm,' Sir James applauded him. ‘We won't let Albatross fly away. Let's drink to that.'

John Kidson didn't go to his house that night. He left Anne's Yard with the whisky numbing his stomach, killing the swirling butterflies that had tormented him throughout the last thirty-six hours. That was his weakness, a stomach that reacted to stress.

He'd brought it off. Harrington was dead and Davina hadn't broken the cover that protected him. She was finished, disgraced … he knew the procedures for internal inquiries within the SIS. He knew how long and difficult it was to track down someone who could protect himself at every turn. He had doctored the files a long time ago; the computer would carry the same errors, when they checked. No scandal. He smiled a little, easing the tension. Too many rivalries from other security sections, always jealous of the funds and privileges allowed the SIS. Philby had done his successor a favour by creating so much bloodletting in the Service. They wouldn't want a repetition. He had time; there was no need to panic now. So much to gain if he kept his nerve. Such an incredible prize to give his friends in Moscow. Head of the Secret Intelligence Service. It was a dizzy prospect and it made him light-headed thinking of what a triumph it would be. What a historic coup against the forces of capitalist society. And as he had always intended, he would take his achievement into a peaceful English churchyard with him, and die respected by the people he had betrayed.

He drove to a pub near the King's Road. It was cheerful and full of young men and women, enjoying themselves. There was a freakish element, intent on showing off, painted like Red Indians, with cropped hair dyed rainbow colours. Kidson observed them with disinterest. The young were disillusioned. Their obsession with ugliness was a sign of revolt against the corrupt society they were growing up in. He didn't blame them. As a nineteen-year-old he had felt the same. Dissatisfied, searching for a belief, savagely anti-fascist with the horrors of the Nazi holocaust peopling his dreams at night. A very clever, introspective young undergraduate, with a history don who sensed his lack of direction in life and his desire to be of use to others.

The process of his political education had been gentle, tactful and finally so illuminating that it was close to ecstasy. His road to Damascus had been the sitting room of his tutor's rooms at King's. He had been blind and, with his friend's help, he saw for the first time. That was how he had begun and he had never once turned back. Never doubted, never faltered under the terrific strain of living a schizophrenic life. Never married, until he met Charlotte Graham and fell in love for the first time. Loved and wanted her and found incredible happiness. It had not conflicted with the search for the traitor Ivan Sasanov. The letters were destroyed. Torn up, meticulously burned and flushed away. He had seen the residue of ash in the lavatory at Marchwood. But not the envelopes. Not after the first year. He had found the scraps in the dustbin and pieced enough together to see the postmark: Perth, Western Australia. It hadn't worried him at all to pass on the information. It didn't change his adoration for his wife or his liking for her family. It didn't stop him being sympathetic to Davina when she came home, widowed, and having lost her child as well. The two sides of his life were separated by a gulf that could never be crossed. He did his work with enthusiasm and consummate skill. He was recognized as the best in-depth interrogator in the Service, and he had never needed to use threats or force. He delivered his own people without scruple, because he dared not permit himself to fail. Because of his record, promotion and access to top-secret information followed. Indeed, he considered calmly, the end justified the means, even when he trapped Soviet agents and they were sent to jail. He had nothing but contempt for the bought traitors like Peter Harrington. Money would never have influenced Kidson. Nor did personal risk. He believed in his duty to the Soviet ideal; he sacrificed the lives of others for it, and he wouldn't have hesitated to die himself either. But subtlety, not heroics, was his speciality. Harrington might convulse and expire like a stray dog, but Kidson's role was to serve from behind a screen of deep deception, and to elude discovery to the very end. He had a drink in the pub and looked at his watch.

He had to meet a contact in that pub, just before it closed. He saw the man come in, carrying a garish yellow cardigan over his shoulder, and Kidson went to the bar and bought cigarettes. The man with the cardigan elbowed his way alongside him.

‘Just on closing,' the barmaid said to the new customer.

‘Time for a half of bitter,' Stephen Wood insisted. He jogged Kidson's elbow. ‘Sorry,' he mumbled. ‘Hot today, wasn't it?'

Kidson picked up his cigarettes and his change. He gave the recognition signal. ‘Makes a change from rain.' He moved back to his table and the man's monotonous voice boomed over the bar, followed by a tuneless haha, haha that grated on Kidson's nerves. He was the emergency exit, the professional bore chatting up the barmaid and slurping back his beer. He had never been contacted before, until Kidson found the matches lying on Charlie's bed. He wouldn't be seen again, after they left the pub and he passed Kidson his instructions.

They mingled with the crowd that spilled out slowly onto the pavement.

‘You're to make for home,' he said.

Kidson gasped. Home meant Moscow. ‘I can't. I'm clear. In line for W.'s job. Tell them.'

Wood paused and pulled on the garish cardigan. He buttoned it up. A last group of loiterers went by.

‘Brr. Got cold suddenly. Glad I brought this along. No arguments. They were specific. You're to go home. Via Paris. Take your wife. Good night.'

Kidson went back to the empty house. Charlie had furnished and decorated it with her special flair. It provided a perfect background for her. Photographs of herself and the baby; their wedding picture, smiling outside the Kensington Register Office. Vases of flowers; she loved flowers and spent a fortune on them. Their bedroom. He felt a lurch of desire and despair. She wouldn't come with him. He knew it. He would lose her and his son if he did as he was ordered. He sat down on the bed. Go home. Take your wife to Paris. That wouldn't be difficult. Charlie would jump at the chance. It wouldn't look suspicious if they went for a weekend together. But he wasn't to stay and bring his long years of work to a sublime conclusion.

He understood what that meant. He went cold and his stomach filled with fluttering wings again. Killing Harrington hadn't been enough. He had never disobeyed. He wouldn't do so now, but he knew that the price was higher than discovery and a life sentence. Charlie wouldn't go to Russia with him.

Charlie believed that anyone who betrayed his country should be shot. He remembered so clearly that conversation in the restaurant by the river. She meant it. She had reminded him of her sister for a moment, and he had been disturbed. Charlie would recoil from him in loathing if she knew what he had done. He would take her to Paris to cover his escape. But he would have to leave her behind. He sat on the bed and hid his face in his hands as he wept.

Lomax had left Humphrey in charge at the Ritz and gone back to the Frasers for the night. He didn't want to see Davina. He couldn't rid himself of the image of her in Tony Walden's arms. There was nothing platonic in that embrace. It was fiercely sexual. If he hadn't turned and left, he would have attacked Walden. He didn't telephone that night. He sat with his old friend and got rather drunk, talking about the Army and their time in the regiment together.

Fraser had no idea that anything was wrong with him. He apologized over and over for his men's failure to protect Lomax's charge. Lomax became a little maudlin as the drink went down, assuring Fraser that they had done their job as well as anyone could do. ‘They're good straightforward blokes,' he mumbled. ‘Send in a couple of heavies, start shooting and they're the best there is. But not bloody cyanide, not an old waiter with a bottle of cyanide wine … they weren't trained to deal with that, Jim, for Christ's sake. Nor was I,' he added. He turned to his friend as they went unsteadily upstairs. He looked dull-eyed and miserable; to Fraser he seemed merely drunk.

‘It's a stinking job,' Lomax said out loud. ‘Everything about it stinks. And everyone in it. I've had enough.…'

The following morning he woke with a headache, but the mild hangover didn't last longer than breakfast. He had made up his mind. He asked Jim Fraser if he'd consider taking on a partner in the security business and he telephoned Davina to say that he was coming round.