Faithless (5 page)

His mother thought hard about the scholarship at George Heriot
's School. The school had been founded for less fortunate children and John was certainly that. He was destined to go down Burghlee Colliery like his stepfather and grandfather and like them work in the cold and dark and be paid with illness and injury. What little money he would earn would hardly feed his family. But if he got a place at the Heriot's School he could join the golden ones and become a lawyer or a doctor, living in a world of foreign holidays, shiny motor cars and maybe even have a maid.

So,
she rolled up her shame and put it away and went and saw the kind and understanding Bursar who explained that the scholarships were for the children of widows only. Without hesitation she told him that John's real father was dead. The Bursar said that in that case he would arrange for John to sit the Entrance Exam.

A few weeks later, John's mother took little boy to the distinguished and intimidating George Heriot's school where, just before he was handed into the care of the smiling teacher, to be taken to
the exam room she said, "If anyone asks, remember your father's dead."

John, aware of what he was saying, and ready to flinch from the blow that might come said, "But faither's at work down the pit."

"You know he's not your real father."

Before he walked off with the teacher she said, "John. I'll be waiting here for you. I love you son."

"I love you too mammy," and as soon as he said it, he realised that the teacher had heard him and there was something quietly disapproving in the man's manner - polite and half hidden - even forgiving - but there just the same.  Much later he realised he should have said mother.

February 1985: London.
John and Rob caught the Tube at Warren Street, their ties blowing in the dusty wind that always seemed to gust around the top of Tottenham Court Road. It put grit in their eyes and caused them to wipe away tears as they made their way down the escalators towards the Victoria Line. They were headed for Pimlico where MAGNIFICAT would be waiting for them with his SIS handler in a safe house.

On the tube they sat side by side in a meditative silence, John browsing The Guardian quietly until Rob asked to borrow the sports pages. Half reading, they then made companionable conversation as they proceeded on the Under
ground from station to station.

"Karen all right?" said Rob.

"Yes, gone with the babies to some kind of "Bruisers and Cruisers" meeting with the Natural Childhood Group or something. Mondays and Fridays. If you miss a meeting they punish you."

"They sound
like fascists."

John nodded. "Not as bad as the La Leche League. I think Mussolini founded it. She goes there three times a week as well."

There was a pause. "I see Clive Ponting's got off," John commented on the article he was reading.

Rob snorted. "He
was as guilty as sin. He broke the Official Secrets Act. Deserves to go to prison. He had no right to broadcast military secrets just because he thought it was 'in the public interest.' We could all do that and then where would we be?" Rob paused to tie his shoelace but continued speaking. "The country would be up the creek without a paddle. Public interest is what the government of the day says it is."

"That's what the Judge said," said John, "but the jury still acquitted him. Apparently he thought he was
going to jail. Took his toothbrush and pajamas to court."

Rob laughed. "Changing the subject. The boys and I are going out on the lash tonight. Wondered if you'd come along?"

"It's Monday. I can't deal with hangovers midweek.  Anyway I have my lovely wife and babies to look after."

Rob said, "It wouldn't kill you to come with the lads. I'm sure they can cope with you having fun once in a while."

"I do have fun. I'm very domesticated. That to me is pleasure"

"Well it's your loss. Probably going to hit the Ro
yal Bengal afterwards too."

"Sounds delightful. Curry and lager on a Monday night. Here we are anyway - Pimlico."

They got up and waited for the doors to open then made their way to street level. It was cold in Pimlico and John buttoned his suit jacket and tucked his tie in as if that would conserve heat.

Neither of them had been to the safe house before. It was in a non-descript Regency terrace. There were three stone steps up to a royal blue painted door with a brass letterbox, all of which could have don
e with a scrub down. There were curtains at the window so you couldn't see in and a brass bell, which Rob rang.

After a while a man in a suit opened the door. Rob and John showed him their identity cards and he smiled and let them in. He made sure he close
d the door before saying. "MAGNIFICAT's in the living room at the back. I'll sit with you if you don't mind. Probably won't say anything though."

Rob offered his hand, "We haven't met. Rob Parry."

The SIS officer shook it and said, "Andrew Morton."

They a
ll knew that wasn't his real name. They shook hands.

"Come through," he said.

MAGNIFICANT sat on a reproduction Regency chair at a reproduction table of some indeterminate style in a room which was clean and tidy and where no one lived. The decor  looked picked from a Civil Service catalogue. MAGNIFICAT was around 50, jowly with grey skin and sad brown eyes. His hair was also grey as was his suit.  He smiled a genuine smile of welcome as Rob and John entered. All of the men sat at the table.

MAGNIFICAT, who all present knew was really called Ivan Adamovich Gorsky, born 1935 in Stalingrad, now Volgagrad, said, "
I am very pleased to be of use to you."

John said, "if no one minds, I'd like to ask you a few questions about some behaviour we observed by the new Scientific Attach
é, Vladimir Vinogradov?"

Gorsky said, "Of course. I would be delighted."

John outlined the surveillance report in great detail. Throughout, Gorsky was smiling and nodding and saying "yes, of course." Halfway through the narrative Gorsky said, "I need hear no more. He is KGB. Not GRU, this is KGB tradecraft."

Rob, merely curious, said, "How do y
ou know the difference?"

Gorsky turned to him affronted. "I know. I have thirty years experience as a Soviet Intelligence Officer. I know. You come to ask my opinion. You have it."

Rob mumbled an apology. John said, "But there's more I want you to help me with."

Gorsky's eyes lit up. "Tell me."

He told him of how Vinogradov had met the man in the Dicken's Inn. Gorsky shrugged, "It could have been anyone. Who is this man?"

"Well we've identified him as Donald Casey. He lives in East London and he works for H
arrison & Roper Ltd who are a company which manufactures small arms parts for the British Army.  They are a List X company - that is they have been identified as a company which has classified contracts."

Gorsky was nodding vigorously. "This is a very good
agent for KGB Line X. Very good. You say this Vinogradov is new? It is likely that he is picking up this agent from a previous handler. But this is a very poor meet."

The SIS officer Morton was nodding. "It does seem very sloppy in terms of tradecraft. If
this man is a valuable source for the KGB, it wasn't done very carefully."

Gorsky said, "Is this contact Casey known to your Service?"

John only hesitated for a second. Gorsky sat back in his seat with pursed lips. He looked sad and angry.

Morton turned t
o him, being conciliatory, "You know we can't give you more details than is absolutely necessary."

John nodded in polite agreement.

Gorsky sighed heavily. "You know that if I return to Russia I will be shot? I am under sentence of death for helping British Intelligence, but still you do not trust me."

"No, no, no," said Morton. "It isn't that. We value you immensely. The help you have given us over the years is beyond price."

"And I did not do it for price," said Gorsky. "You give me a small pension. That is all. But that is enough. I did it because I hate to see my country shackled by Communist despots and tyrants. These are the same words in Russian  -
Деспот  и тиран
"

"You are valued. Very highly," insisted Morton. He put his hand on Gorsky's arm. Inte
lligence officers are always actors and often liars, but sometimes they tell the truth. Gorsky calmed down.

"Indeed, I have a letter of thanks from your Prime Minister and one from the President of the USA."  He was an intelligence officer as well -  ironi
c or genuine it was hard to tell.

Rob sat forward. "I wonder if I could ask you about some Russian students whom I suspect are under Intelligence control?"

John sat back and watched while Gorsky listened intently to Rob, their previous fall out apparently forgotten. Gorsky smiled and nodded ever more enthusiastically before pronouncing his opinion that they were not professional intelligence officers but were tasked with talent spotting any of their fellow students for future KGB development.

When they we
re finished and they had got what they needed from him, Gorsky looked wistful. Morton began to shuffle and make moves preparatory to ushering them out. Then Gorsky suddenly said, "It is a lonely life as a defector. I have my small house and my garden. I am learning to be an Englishman and tend my garden. I can never mix with Russians because one of them might have the job of killing me." He smiled thinly. "I can never satisfactorily mix with ordinary British citizens either. I do of course, in the post office and in the supermarket, but we are worlds apart. I like that idiom. We are on different planets. I do not even speak my mother tongue any more. I read it of course, but never speak it apart from to some kind colleagues in SIS who indulge me occasionally.  I am  losing my fluency - I forget some words and the English words come first. Of course I do not speak English perfectly either."

There were polite mutterings of disagreement from the three British officers.

"No, it is true. I struggle and stumble. I dream in a mix of English and Russian, and grasp neither of them fully. I am lost in between what was and what is. And I wonder what will be."

Rob said, "My father is a keen gardener up in Suffolk."

Gorsky smiled. "I am a beginner. I do spend time making model aeroplanes also."

John said, "I made model aeroplanes as a boy. I always used to get Airfix kits for my birthday and at Christmas. The biggest model I made was an Avro Lancaster when I was about
13."

Gorsky looked over at John. "I have made British planes, and American but mainly I make German and Russian. I am making a Yakovlev 1 at present. You know that plane?"

John said, "I've heard of it."

Gorsky said, "My father flew them. He was in the 286
Fighter Aviation Regiment. He flew above Stalingrad, my home city. He was a comrade of Lydia Vladimirovna Litvjak, a woman pilot. You have heard of her - the White Rose of Stalingrad?"

They all shook their heads. "My father survived the war. But the siege
of Stalingrad was something so terrible that still I remember it even though I was taken with my mother and brothers and sisters over the Volga before the worst of the fighting. I still remember hearing the German bombing and how I curled up in fear. And then how ashamed I was of my fear because my father had none. He was out fighting while I cowered."

He continued, his eyes fixed in the middle distance as if seeing the scenes of memory again. "You know, after Stalingrad the German Army was broken? Don't t
hink that because I sit here with you in London and I cannot return home that I am not proud to be Russian. Let me tell you, when a tyrant arises in Europe, it is Russia that brings him down. Whether it is Napoleon or Hitler or Genghis Khan, Russian blood is how Europe pays for their defeat. And Europe is happy to do so, no?" He smiled.

Later as they were going out and had said goodbye to Andrew Morton at the door, Rob said, "Christ, he almost had me in tears."

"It's a sad life he leads," said John.

"Note t
o self," said Rob. "Don't defect."

As they entered the Long Room, Sue was sitting there. She looked up with disapproval. John sat down at his desk. "We've been to see MAGNIFICAT," he said.

"Yes," she said. "You got your way."

"Yeah, he thinks Vinogradov is
definitely KGB. And furthermore he thinks the contact is probably a Line X agent."

"Which contact?"

"You know, the one I saw with A4 at the Dicken's Inn. The one who works for the List X company that makes guns for the Army."

She shook her head. "I don't
want any more resources spent on that."

John felt a rush of anger. "Sorry? I've just identified a Line X agent and you are going to let it lie?"

"No, John. You have not identified a Line X agent. You just believe you have. There is a lot more to identifying agents than one A4 contact."