Making Enemies (13 page)

After each meeting with Andropov, she lies in bed trying to calm her disturbed mind into a short and troubled sleep (has Andropov no home to go to? Is that why he keeps her up so late?).

Why is he making her do this? What does he want to achieve? But she can find no answers (or none that makes any sense) and Andropov has offered no explanation. She is forced to accept his silence because her greater anxiety is that one night he will not summon her. Then she will have no script to guide her and the truth of her deceit, her inability to speak without his prompting (she still does not have any conviction about what she is doing) will be revealed to her colleagues at the Institute.

*

Once, without warning, Andropov comes to her apartment. He arrives at one o’clock in the morning, pressing the bell twice and terrifying her, while she is clearing up after an unexpected meeting of the committee. She is alarmed her friends will have seen Andropov as they leave the building. He is amused by her distress.

‘I have played this game a long time,’ he says. ‘I can become invisible when I wish to.’

She begs him never to do this again and so far he has kept away. He has seen how his visit has distressed her. She sees his compliance as a sign of her importance to him but she is so exhausted from the strain of her deception that she is unable to make anything of this.

Andropov says he is pleased with their progress. The committee is doing its job well. She reminds him that the directorate has rejected every recommendation her committee has so far made. (She remembers the unfamiliar, shiny corridor, the knock on the door of the
deputy director’s office, the wait until the light changed from red to green, the formal greetings,
Comrade Deputy Director, Comrade Marchenko
, the splinter of wood on the leg of the chair on which she tore her stockings, the serrated edge of the paperknife he used to open her envelope, his concentration as he read the first page of the letter – ‘Recommendations,’ Gromsky had said, ‘Demands,’ Lykowski had shouted – her departure down the same empty corridor after his mumbled response that he will reply to her in due course, and then later the one-line letter of rejection.)

‘Rejection,’ Andropov says, ‘is the only response they know.’ The commissars do not know how to cope with the demands made of them. Their hope is that continual rejection will stifle the root of their opposition. He reminds her that it is her task to ensure that this does not happen. He asks after the progress of the list of demands Gromsky is preparing (she is surprised he doesn’t refer to it as a policy document). She gives him the bad news that it is delayed. He tells her that keeping up the pressure is important. She must pursue Gromsky. He gives her a list of points for inclusion in the document.

He commends her own performance and reminds her of comments she has made during a recent meeting. She knows then that someone within the committee is Andropov’s creature too, one of whose purposes, at least, is to report on her. She wonders if this man or woman knows she is simply the vehicle for Andropov’s design. She assumes not. She is now even more confused about Andropov’s role.

*

One night she takes her courage in her hands and asks Andropov once more why he is asking her to do this. Why is he stirring up this opposition within the Institute when he himself has said that its work is so important, that Soviet foreign policy calls for the manufacture of the Soviet nuclear bomb? What is the true purpose of this strange drama in which she finds herself playing so unexpectedly important a part? How does the creation of an opposition to nuclear development within the Soviet Union help the cause of damaging the processes of nuclear research in the West?

He turns towards her and smiles. The light from the lamp on the table beside him flashes momentarily across the lenses of his rimless glasses. The smoke from his cigarette clears from in front of his face
and she sees his cold blue eyes staring at her. For a moment she suspects he is near to telling her and she waits, holding her breath. Will he pull back the black cover he has thrown over the cage of her life and reveal a chink of light? But his discipline reasserts itself and a brief smile is all he will concede. He says nothing. She must be content with his smile.

*

Now they appear to have entered a period of relative calm. For a while there are no new instructions, though Andropov insists they must continue to meet as before.

‘The initial move has achieved its objectives,’ Andropov tells her. What objectives? she wants to ask but doesn’t.

His mood is expansive; he offers her a cigarette, something he has not done before. She wonders if he is finding reasons to prolong their meetings which now could be over in five minutes or less, as for the moment he seems to have little or nothing to say to her. But he keeps her there as long as before, usually up to an hour or more. The conversation moves away from the strict agenda of the early meetings. He asks after her mother and her son. At first she is suspicious and says little. Slowly she senses that his questions are genuine, that he wants to talk to her. She wonders why. Is it possible that he is lonely?

They are sitting in a pool of yellow light in the living room of a small apartment somewhere in the city. She has, as usual, no idea where they are tonight, and has given up trying to discover where he takes her. The curtains are pulled. They are alone. His driver waits in the car in the street many floors below. (How many? Seven? Eight? She can’t remember). He smokes. Sometimes he offers her a cigarette. They don’t drink anything, not even tea. She wonders if the apartment has a kettle. Outside she hears the distant noise of the city, a lorry plunging through melting snow in the street, the wail of a siren, a human cry, part curse, part despair, all the sounds of Moscow at night. Never before have they frightened her but now she starts at each sound.

Andropov is talking about the official reaction to her committee’s latest demands. He calls it ‘her’ committee. She hates that. The political directorate at the Institute, he tells her, is puzzled by this prolonged upsurge of discontent about which they can do little. What has caused it? Why will it not go away? Why has their offer
of improved privileges (cheap rates to rent a summer dacha, better-quality winter coats at GUM, cheaper than those bought anywhere else in Moscow) had no effect? They are baffled by events. They have no idea what tactics to employ to quieten it down.

‘What’ll we do?’ she asks.

‘Wait,’ he says. ‘For the moment, we will do nothing. We must not add to their confusion – that will only make their response more rigid.’

‘Do nothing for the present,’ she tells her committee later. ‘We have achieved our first objective, we have confused the directorate. Let’s see how they react to their confusion. That may create new opportunities for us.’

There is some complaint at this, the more fiery members of the committee scenting blood and wanting to go for the kill.

‘We have them on the run. We must push, push, push till they fall over. We have an opportunity now which will not recur.’ (This is Lykowksi who, with all the skills of a politician, has ruthlessly promoted himself and his opinions. Sometimes she wonders if he is not an agent provocateur.)

She argues that the power of the authorities is absolute, they must never forget that, and that they are fooling themselves if they think they can push them over. After all, she says, hoping it is true, they are all responsible people and their demands are legitimate. They require a legitimate response. Fight orthodoxy with orthodoxy (Andropov’s phrase) and not as a rabble. Their great asset, she reminds them (Andropov again) is that they are more organized than their opponents. That is their strength, which they must not squander. To her relief, and with support from Gromsky and Markarova, she wins the argument and restrains the hotheads.

She does not report this to Andropov but the following day he tells her: ‘The authorities will never fall over. You were right to remind your colleagues of that.’

He is putting her on notice that every move she makes is watched, every word she speaks is recorded. Sometimes she finds the strain so great that she wants to scream the truth in the middle of a committee meeting. Then there flashes across her mind the faces of her mother and son and she knows that any revelation of her double life is impossible. The truth would condemn them as well as herself. There is no way out for her, as Andropov knows. She is locked into the deceit.

‘We nearly jumped out of our skins, guv, when the Old Bill rolled up. Gave us the shock of our lives.’

We were sitting disconsolately in a car outside the entrance to the building, waiting for Corless. Above us was the darkened window where, until a short while ago, a light behind a curtain had reassured us that Krasov was safe and sound. In the space of a few moments our world had been turned upside down.

‘What the hell did the police want?’

‘Search me, guv. All very quiet, like. No lights, no bells, nothing. Three cars and a Black Maria. A couple of bobbies posted front and back. Then these three uniformed officers go in through the front door, don’t they? A minute later out they come with some poor sod under a blanket and they’re away. All over in the blink of an eye. Nothing we could do about it, was there, sir?’

‘Who was it, the local nick?’

‘No, sir. The local swears blind they knew nothing was going on in their parish. I’m sure they didn’t take our boy.’

I found a telephone box and rang the duty desk at Scotland Yard. I was given the runaround at once. There is no one more obtuse than a policeman who doesn’t want to be helpful.

Foreign gentleman would he be, sir, with a name like that? Karsov, was it? Could I spell that, please? Nobody of that name, no, sir. Nothing in the duty book. Just a minute, sir. Sounds of a muffled conversation, one hand partly over the receiver. Yes, he could confirm someone had been brought in, Russian gentleman, Mr Krakoff by name. No, sir, he couldn’t authorize that, he’s being held incommunicado at present.

Nothing more after that, just round in circles, an impenetrable defence that left me furious at my impotence and apprehensive about what might happen now.

Corless turned up at midnight, wearing a dinner jacket. He had been angry when I had finally made contact and given him the news about Krasov. His temper hadn’t cooled on the journey back to London.

‘What an utter mess,’ he said. ‘What the hell were you doing with him anyway? You had no authority to take charge. Why didn’t you get hold of me at once?’

I did my best to explain that I’d tried but he wasn’t in a mood for listening.

‘Where’s Krasov now? Do we know who’s got him?’

‘Scotland Yard are holding him overnight.’

‘You’ve asked to see him and some idiot in blue has said no? Is that right?’

‘Out of bounds,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Very unhelpful. Didn’t want to know.’

‘I’m going to make a telephone call,’ Corless said impatiently.

But his contact, whoever he was, wouldn’t oblige. The establishment he thought he’d joined still had him on probation. He didn’t like that, especially since I was a witness to his rejection. (A setback to the growth industry of Corless mythology, not good for rising stars.) His mood darkened.

‘Do you know what pisses me off?’ he said, genuine bitterness in his voice. ‘A man who is probably an active member of the Russian intelligence service and not the friendly journalist
some
of us imagined him to be’ he glanced at me, ‘is sitting in a nice warm cell a mile away from here, while all because of our bloody bureaucracy we’re out here freezing our balls off unable to get our hands on him. No wonder this country is going to the dogs.’ He pulled up the collar of his overcoat. ‘Let’s go and get a cup of tea. You can tell me the full story on the way.’

We walked to the cabbies’ hut in Pont Street and got two cups of strong tea which we drank in the back of Corless’s car. I told him as much as I knew.

*

‘Christ!’ Corless banged his gloved hand against the side of the car. ‘We had him in our grasp and now we’ve lost him.’

He was sunk in gloom. Krasov was a sleeper, he said. He’d served his years as a journalist, established himself so well that when the call came we were looking the other way. He’d been wrong about Krasov. We’d all been wrong about Krasov.

‘The Soviets need to contact their source in Cambridge. Who better for the job than our friendly Russian? He spins some yarn about being afraid to go home and we all fall for it. Minutes later he’s getting soup and sympathy in the home of his target. Half an hour with Stevens and the deed, whatever it is, is done. Next day he’s back in town, we shelter him for the weekend and as the time comes for a move, Scotland Yard take over and hand him back to his own people the following day and we can’t touch him. All very neat, thank you very much. We’ve been set up, good and proper, that’s for sure.’

It was meant to hurt and it did.

‘Nothing more we can do tonight,’ he said. ‘We’ve lost this round. Let’s get some sleep. We’ll meet again at eight and see if we can retrieve something then.’

The light of day didn’t make things better. Colin Maitland put his head round the door. Rupert had summoned him at dawn from the depths of Sussex.

‘Our boy’s in the embassy, Rupert. First thing this morning. Police escort all the way. Looked like royalty. The press are on to it, I’m afraid. Someone tipped them off.’

Corless’s secretary came in (another early-morning telephone call to her flat in Putney). ‘I got on to Northolt, sir. There’s an Aeroflot plane leaving at two-thirty.’

‘That’s the one they’ll be going for,’ Corless said, suddenly animated. ‘That gives us five hours.’

‘Do you want me to get the car, sir?’

‘Better still, Maureen,’ he said, scribbling a number on a piece of paper and giving it to her, ‘see if you can raise Willy Glover, will you? Say I need to speak to him urgently.’

‘You won’t be popular,’ Maitland said. ‘Glover’s spending the weekend with David Iredale.’

‘I’m not in this to be popular,’ Corless snapped. ‘I’m sure Glover will think national security’s more important that slaughtering birds on Iredale’s estate.’

The buzzer went on Corless’s desk.

‘Mr Glover for you, sir.’

It was a fairly stilted conversation and Corless didn’t get his way at first. But he stuck to his point, Glover gave in and said he’d be with us by eleven. He was senior to Corless and he had the clout Rupert so obviously lacked. Rupert’s idea, I imagined, was to get him to sanction his scheme, whatever it was.

Corless put the telephone down and we heard Maureen’s voice on the intercom.

‘I’ve put the car on standby all day. We’ll pick up Mr Glover at Victoria.’

‘Thank you, Maureen.’ Corless looked at his watch. ‘Maybe there’s a chance we can pull something out of the bag.’ He pressed the buzzer again. ‘Maureen. Some of us missed our breakfast. We’d love one of your famous cups of tea. And any chance of a piece of toast, Mr Maitland asks?’

*

‘This had better be good, Rupert.’ In his tweed suit Glover looked more like a country squire than a senior civil servant, what Corless in the days before his elevation had called weekend fancy dress but which now he copied slavishly. ‘David Iredale doesn’t like his guests being called away when he’s asked them down for a shoot.’

Corless said he hoped Lord Iredale would accept his apologies for the inconvenience. If he hadn’t judged it important, he would never have asked for the meeting. He reported that he had evidence that Krasov had been in Cambridge, in contact with a senior British nuclear scientist already suspected of working with the Russians. He wanted an order to prevent Krasov from leaving the country, pending further enquiries. The Russian was to be arrested and handed over to SOVINT for questioning.

‘No can do, Rupert. Sorry.’

‘Why not?’ Corless was horrified.

‘Number of reasons. One. We’ve no evidence he’s done anything wrong. Two. They informed us an hour ago that Krasov is seriously ill and must return to Moscow for immediate medical treatment.’

‘For God’s sake, Willy, they’re shooting a line. You don’t believe it, do you?’

‘We offered them medical facilities here, but the embassy spokesman said Krasov requires specialist treatment only available in Moscow. We have naturally accepted their judgement in the matter.’

‘Aren’t you surprised that a man who is perfectly healthy one minute should fall so desperately ill the next, Willy? Doesn’t it make you ask questions? Doesn’t it stink?’

‘Not our job to question the competent medical authorities,’ Glover said. ‘The Soviets have their own doctor, and he has made the diagnosis. Krasov’s health is a matter for them.’

‘Do you think Krasov’s collapse might have been engineered with the use of drugs administered under duress?’

‘We have no evidence for that. We cannot act on supposition, however convenient it might be to do so. Our contacts at the Soviet embassy have assured us that Krasov will receive the very best medical attention in Moscow. They hope he will be back at his desk before long.’

‘You let them say that, Willy? You let them get away with it?’

‘What grounds do I have for not believing them? Certainly not the extravagant story you’ve spun me.’

‘Krasov was perfectly fit when he left Scotland Yard a few hours ago. There was nothing the matter with him. Do you want me to produce witnesses?’

‘Got to take the Soviets’ word for it, old boy. We can’t risk a damaging political incident out of this, you know.’

Corless was controlling his anger only by the skin of his teeth.

‘We’re now almost certain Krasov is a Soviet intelligence officer. It is our belief that he may be taking British nuclear secrets back to Moscow with him. Are you still prepared to let him go?’

‘Come on, Rupert. You can do better than that.’

‘I want an answer, Willy.’

‘I can’t stop him, and you know I can’t.’

We were kicking against an invisible wall. There is nothing so smug nor self-assured as an official working within the strict guidelines of the rule book. Willy Glover did not put a foot wrong that morning and we got nowhere. The armour of the rule book was impenetrable. Corless threw up his hands in despair.

We stood helplessly on the sidelines while Krasov was taken away. Our department’s efforts to prevent the Russian embassy removing him, drugged and strapped to a stretcher as reported by Northolt security officers, ‘seriously ill’ according to a Russian press officer when only twenty-four hours earlier he had been in the best of health, had failed utterly. But what depressed us most was the hostility we met from our own side.

‘Soviets one, SOVINT nil,’ Adrian Gardner said. There was a general reluctance to go home on this wet and depressing Sunday afternoon. We had suffered our first defeat and we knew it. The trouble was, we didn’t know what to do about it.