Mrs Harris Goes to Moscow (16 page)

Ada warmed to him like an old friend. Suddenly the vast distance that separated them no longer seemed to exist and she said, ‘That's right, your 'ighness, but I didn't ought to 'ave done it. I've resigned and learned me lesson.'

The Duke was grinning widely and said, ‘Yes, I remember it all now. Are you enjoying your stay in Russia? Are you being properly looked after?'

And then it was that something else happened within Mrs Harris, triggered perhaps by the fact that out of the corner of her eye in another part of the room she caught sight of the KGB Colonel Dugliev now in dress uniform and amply bemedalled, but more from the fact that such a swift and homely rapport had been established between Prince Philip and herself. They understood one another and she felt as though she had known him all her life. If there was anyone to whom she could explain about the indignities that had been heaped upon her who but the husband of the Queen of England? And, to the horror of the Director of Protocol and one or two other English-speaking dignitaries, it suddenly poured forth.

‘Properly looked after, your 'ighness? Properly
treated like I was a criminal. Searched and followed and listened to, arrested on the 'igh street because some poor revivalist stuck a 'andbill in me fingers about being saved by the good Lord, carted off to a jail with me friend 'ere, Mrs Butterfield' (Violet went into a violent series of bobs at this mention), ‘searched and shouted at by 'im over there in the corner with all those medals and called a spy. Me, a 'ard workin' woman 'oo never so much as opened up a bureau drawer of any of me clients to see what was inside.'

The smile vanished from the face of the Duke and the quizzical look was replaced by something deeper, reflective and slightly harder. He said, ‘I don't quite understand but I suggest that you tell your story to Sir Harold Barry, Adviser on Russian Affairs to his Excellency our Ambassador here, and in the meantime let me repeat that it has been a pleasure to meet you.'

Mrs Harris moved off in the direction of the dignitary the Prince had indicated who was standing to one side. Some five yards away from His Royal Highness, Mrs Butterfield was still bobbing.

The Adviser to the Ambassador was an elderly gentleman likewise clad in the striped trouser diplomatic regalia. He had thinning white hair, a military moustache and huge horn-rimmed glasses which coupled with a beak nose gave him the appearance of a formidable owl and rather intimidated Mrs
Harris. Without realizing she was doing so she had blown her top to the consort of the Queen. It had just come popping out in addition to which, and in the hearing of Liz, she had exposed her phoney aristocracy. But to come up with the details of all that had happened to them since their arrival in Moscow to this rather grand looking gentleman was something else again.

However, she had an insight into British diplomatic staff work for as she stood before him the fierceness of his expression was replaced by a bland smile and he said, ‘How do you do. My name is Barry. I saw His Royal Highness tell you to have a word with me. Come, come, you mustn't be afraid. Somebody tried to nobble your passport or put buckshot in your caviar? We'll go over there with your friend and sit down and have a little chat.' This chat, now that her fears were calmed and fortified with a couple of glasses of vodka which tasted enough like gin to be potable and some food, turned out to be rather a long one. Made aware of her identity, the muddle and all that, the diplomat asked a number of questions sufficiently pertinent for Ada to see that he was no fool. When the interview was finished he fell silent for a moment until brushing his moustache with a finger he said, ‘Rum lot some of these chaps. Not very bright, you know. They're worse than we are at seeing Reds under the bed. More frightened of themselves than they are of
anybody else. Well now, all this wants a bit of thinking about and perhaps a chat with one or two of them. In the meantime I suggest you go back to your hotel. What's your room number? Where have they put you? In that monstrosity, the Rossia? Wait until you hear from me. They won't like it when they find out they've made fools of themselves. Not to worry. Chin, chin, and cheers,' and he raised his glass in what was simultaneously a toast and a dismissal.

They held a whispered council of war clustered together by the open window with the radio full on, back in the sitting-room of their luxury suite of the hotel, Liz, Mrs Butterfield and Mrs Harris, or rather a council of love, which dealt mainly with what seemed to be the insuperable problem of uniting Lisabeta Nadeshda Borovaskaya with Geoffrey Lockwood.

After what had happened, of course a letter was unthinkable. Mrs Harris would be able to take back verbal messages of undying affection and yearning but after that any further ideas of their being brought together turned out upon the face of things to be blocked at every turn.

To begin with Mr Lockwood was
persona non grata
in the Soviet Union and while Liz had a solid job with Intourist for VIPs and was also a regular guide she was not that far trusted as to be allowed to be a
member of the branch who made trips to the West. Somewhere along the line somebody had suspected that Liz had been more than a guide to a Western correspondent. Therefore even though her life and work in Moscow were not interfered with she was aware that she was under surveillance. One false move and she would be lost.

The Soviet Union was probably the most gigantic jail in the world with several thousand doors to entry and exit, all of which could be locked instantaneously by the turn of one handle. Escape over a border was impossible since all the neighbours were Iron Curtain pals. To leave by any ordinary means of transportation called for enough documents to paper a room. The more questions Mrs Harris asked, the more fantastic sounding plans or likewise utterly simple ones she suggested, the more Liz was able to prove that she would be unable to leave the country much less reach England.

And the tighter the doors appeared to be locked the more Mrs Harris refused to accept the impossibility of bringing together the lovers. She said, ‘Now, dearie, don't you despair. I've always found that if you want something bad enough and keep on at it you can get it. I'll fink of something.'

Ordinarily such apparently blockheaded optimism in the face of all the unbreachable stone walls, locked doors and iron curtains that Liz had revealed might have irritated her and even angered her,
notwithstanding her misery and despair, but there was something in Mrs Harris's unquenchable optimism which could not be denied.

Mrs Harris did not know herself whence it came except that she remembered how powerful her fantasy had been when first Mr Lockwood had broached the subject, that one day she would be ringing his doorbell and saying, ‘Mr Lockwood, 'ere's a friend of yours come to see you.' This dream had crystallized into such a reality that it appeared almost unthinkable for it not to happen. And then there was something else. All the time that Ada was putting forth her schemes something was rattling around at the back of her head and she couldn't get it out or remember what it was. But she knew that it had been something the Adviser to the Ambassador, Sir Harold Barry, had said and which if she could only remember it might prove the key that would open all the thousand doors as if by magic. But what it was she could not catch.

The tears were still falling from the eyes of Lisabeta plop, plop upon the documents that identified Ada Harris as that sprig of high London society, Lady Char.

‘And even this isn't true now,' Liz sobbed. ‘Don't you see, you aren't even a real lady. Oh dear, I don't mean that. You are a darling to want to help me but you see if you had really been Lady Char as it is here they might have listened to you.'

Ada said, ‘Now don't you worry about that one bit,' and suppressed a smile as she looked down upon her photograph identifying her as one of the important blue-bloods of Mayfair. ‘Plain old Ada Harris who washes up for the nobs, scrubs their floors and keeps their clothes in order has seen a lot more of life than you would think and maybe could wind up in the end doin' a lot more for you than that old bag with 'er title.'

What was it that Sir Harold had said? Something so short and simple; if she could only remember.

There came a knock on the door and, when they said ‘Come in', it produced a most handsome, blond, pink-faced young man in striped trousers and short black jacket. He said, ‘I'm Byron Dale, from the British Embassy, and Sir Harold Barry sent me over to say that he felt that you and your friend might be better off if you came and stayed at the Embassy until your departure. I see you haven't unpacked your bags yet. That's good. He thought you ought to come right away.'

Ada understood. Whatever dangers had threatened them since their entry into the Soviet Union were not yet over and, now that Liz had so violently defied the KGB on their behalf, she too was involved. She said, ‘I won't go unless Liz 'ere can come too.'

The young man looked doubtful for a moment and then, having regarded Liz, lost his doubts rather quickly. He said, ‘All right. No one said she was not
to come but I think the main thing is that we ought to hurry. I have a car downstairs.' He picked up the two bags and the three followed him out of the room. Halfway down the corridor Mrs Harris suddenly shrieked, ‘Eureka!' and as Liz and Mrs Butterfield looked at her as though she had gone mad she said, ‘I've suddenly remembered what it was Sir 'Arold said. We'll 'ave you in the British Isles yet, my girl.' They went down in the elevator and were driven away in the Embassy car.

Their good fortune was that the delegation from the KGB chose elevator Number Seven to rise to the level of the floor of Lady Char's suite. Number Seven elevator had been cranky and not feeling well for days. Now, loaded with the KGB operatives, it gave up between the third and fourth floors. By the time a cure had been effected and they reached their objective there were no more birds in the nest of the pseudo Lady Char who was about to be arrested for impersonation and half a dozen other crimes they would manage to fasten upon her.

Anatole Pavlovich Agronsky, Vice Foreign Minister, who for eight years had been Russian Ambassador to England, and Sir Harold Barry, Adviser on Russian Affairs to the British Ambassador, were old friends, tennis opponents when the weather was fine, enthusiastic figure skaters in the winter and occasionally bridge partners, and so they were on first-name terms. Easy and relaxed with one another as well as understanding, except when it came to business when each retired to his side and colour of the diplomatic chess board, black or white, depending on who thought he was right. From then on, still quietly, but with only thoughts of the problem at hand to the benefit of their countries, moves were made and the impasse quietly discussed. One such session now took place.

This meeting, being one which might be trivial, but also could suddenly turn into having serious diplomatic repercussions, was held on neutral grounds and probably the only spot the Russians had not yet managed to bug successfully although they were getting on with long distance listening devices. It was on a bench in the heart of the Central Park of Culture and Rest where there were both sounds of traffic and the screams of children playing to provide cover. Neither of the diplomats wished this particular discussion to be overheard by the security snoops of either of their countries.

‘You see, my dear Harold,' Agronsky was saying, ‘that the situation has been removed from our purview even should we wish to help you, which I can promise you I most fervently do and you may rest assured that I will use my own good offices. But as you must see the women are undoubtedly spies as revealed by their dossiers, at least the one who calls herself Mrs Harris, and there is the further evidence of her having conspired and succeeded in passing herself off under an assumed name as a British aristocrat. Impersonation, as you know, is looked upon with extreme disfavour as I gather it is in your country as well. By now the KGB will have taken both the women into custody as well as the girl, Lisabeta Nadeshda Borovaskaya, the Intourist guide who was obviously party to the impersonation and a participant in the plot.'

Sir Harold, who for the last ten minutes of the discourse on the crimes of Mrs Harris, Mrs Butterfield and the Intourist girl had remained at his most introspective owlishness, now crossed his legs but said nothing.

‘The women,' continued Agronsky, ‘will be subjected to no physical harm but as you know the KGB has its own methods of extracting information. My judgement of the affair is that there will be a trial, a confession, a sentence and, after the case is forgotten, in all likelihood a parole and expulsion from the country,' and having completed his speech, the Foreign Office man fell silent.

Sir Harold, too, refrained from speaking, but uncrossed his legs and turned slightly on the bench towards his friend so as to draw closer to a screaming baby. He reduced the owlishness almost to the expression of a friendly smile. He said, ‘Except for one thing, friend Anatole Pavlovich, everything you say, from your point of view, might be taken as gospel but for the fact that the lift taken by your KGB goons chose most fortuitously to succumb to the shoddy material used by your crooked contractors in constructing it, and quit. By the time it resumed its functions Mrs Harris and Mrs Butterfield had been removed to quarters in our Embassy along with the girl, Lisabeta Nadeshda Borovaskaya, who Mrs Harris insisted accompany her.' Sir Harold felt that Agronsky had that much coming to
him even in the circumstances of their friendly relationship.

Agronsky gave vent to a long sigh, remarked, ‘There is an old Russian saying: “It is more difficult to find an honest contractor than a diamond in a suet pudding,”' and Sir Harold, smiling, said, ‘I must remember that one,' and the board was now clear for the next move.

Shortly afterwards Sir Harold was saying, ‘You see, my dear Anatole, you have succeeded in making asses of yourselves. Mrs Harris and Mrs Butterfield are no more spies than you are the prima ballerina at the Bolshoi. Your dossier on Mrs Harris acting as a courier for an innocent cross-section of the British public is nothing but an invention of your operatives in search of promotion. I will grant you that they are probably quite correct in labelling such people as Major Wallace and Lady Dant as anti-Soviet. I hope you will not take it amiss when I say that three-quarters of the population of the British Isles would gladly see you and your country at the bottom of the sea, but they would not so much as lift a finger to bring it about.'