The Longest Pleasure (28 page)

'Yes,' Galitsin said. 'It can be very cold in Siberia.' The car pulled down a shallow embankment, came to rest at the edge of the trees. Oh, to be able to think clearly. To be able to understand. Martle appeared to have no motives whatsoever. But was there such a thing as a motiveless man?
Could
there be such an animal?'

'Well,' Martle said, 'if you'd like to get out, old man.' He looked over his shoulder. -'We're out of sight of the road.'

'I wonder,' Galitsin said, 'if we could play that game first. Before you go into Yeovil.'

'I say, you really are keen, aren't you? That's what they do say about the Russians. Well, of course, I'd enjoy that very much.' Martle opened the glove compartment, took out a flask and a pocket chess set. 'Brandy? It'll warm you up.'

Galitsin hesitated, took the flask, drank deeply. His throbbing brain exploded into light. Tremendous clarity was on its way. And the chess game would help. It might solve everything. And an hour spent looking at a chessboard would give him time to think.

'Now let's see,' Martle said. 'Queens go on their own colours, of course. Am I right?'

'Yes,' Galitsin said, and sighed.

The game lasted four minutes.

'I say,' Martle said. 'That was very good. You really are a very strong player. Quite out of my class, what? Do you know what I'd like to do? I'd like to introduce you to my club. There are a couple of chaps there who think they're pretty hot. I'd like to see their faces when they found themselves playing you. Would you like to come along and play a game or two?'

'I would like that very much,' Galitsin said, and hit him on the chin.

The bus stop was a qua
rter of a mile from Ewfim Isbin
ski's apartment. Helena Isbinska stepped down, felt the thin ice on the pavement crunch beneath her boots, the wind surge against her thick trousers. She adjusted her shopping bag against her shoulder, walked a few steps, checked. She did this every day, to give the man time to leave the bus in a leisurely fashion, button his coat, straighten his hat. She never smiled at him, never even looked at him. That would have been too obvious.

She walked up the street, slowly. She savoured every moment of this walk, every afternoon. She always had, because it meant that she was going home to the boys, that Ewfim would soon also be there, that they could shut the door of the apartment, and with it the presence, if not the sounds, of the outside world, and read, or play a game, and watch television.

But this last week the walk had taken on a special significance, because she had no means of knowing which walk would be her last. For how long? And would she still be Helena Isbinska when she came back? She did not know what to expect. She did not know if Alexander would be distressed by the letter. But surely he would understand; she had made it as stilted as she dared. And Tigran Dus had seemed quite pleased. Yet since that day the man had been following her everywhere. If only she could know how long her wait would be. She had assumed that if Alexander had been going to run away it would have been this last week. Instead of which he had been taken ill, according to
Schachmaty,
and the story had been repeated in
Pravda.
Only this unfortunate illness could possibly have prevented him from winning his section. Of the seven games he had played, he had won six and drawn one. The draw had been described as an oversight in a won position, but it was the only game of which the score had not been given in
Schachmaty.
She wondered about that. In any event, no one could doubt' that he would have won his other two games, although even draws would have enabled him to share first place.

The illness was unfortunate. From every point of view. It would upset his plans, might even cause him to be brought back to Moscow. It would upset her plans, too, her preparedness. She could not hold herself in a state of readiness forever. And having achieved a state of readiness once, she did not know if she could ever be the same again. Helena Isbinska's life had reached flashpoint. There could be no more serenity. But now she knew, now that she had allowed herself to think about it, that there had never been any serenity.

She rounded the corner, and the apartment block was in front of her. But so was a car, large, black, waiting by the kerb, its engine running. She checked, her heart slipping around inside her chest, banging her lungs and making her breathless. Now it was unexpected. And now she was afraid. She wanted to run, past the car and up the stairs, shut the door behind her and turn the key, barricade herself into the flat. But that was impossible; she would never get past the car. And so was running the other way impossible. The man was immediately behind her.

The car door opened, and a man got out. 'Helena Isbinska ? Will you get in, please ?'

A woman stood in the vestibule of the flats, pulled the glass doors open. She lived across the hall. She was as close a friend as Helena had ever had in all Moscow. She stared at Helena Isbinska, at the two men, one in front of her and one behind, at the car, waiting, its engine running. Hastily she closed the door behind her again, went to the stairs. But at least she would be able to tell Ewfim.

Helena Isbinska bowed her head to get into the car, hesitated. There was another man seated in the interior, and this was a small man; for a moment she thought it was Tigran Dus. So she checked, and felt herself gripped at the thighs by two very strong hands, which thrust her forward with tremendous force. Her shins caught the edge of the floor, and she stumbled to her knees, to be struck a vicious blow in the centre of her buttocks which sent her sprawling, her face hitting the shoes of the seated man. But he was not Tigran Dus. He moved his shoes, and her face continued on its way, striking the carpeted floor.

She was breathless. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before, and her brain, spinning round the pain-cage of her head, insisted on rationalising. This was part of the system. To make the prisoner afraid of the guard from the beginning. She could accept that. It was a logical procedure. She thought, as she drew up her legs and got back to her knees, How fortunate that I am wearing trousers, and not a skirt. But as she reached her knees the man sitting beside her seized the front of her coat, taking a great handful of cloth and blouse and brassiere and breast, and threw her on to the seat, and as she gazed into his eyes she realised that it would make no difference at all whether she was wearing trousers or a skirt.

Galitsin took a taxi from the station. He could afford to; his thirty pounds was still untouched in his pocket. The taxi-driver was his first big test, but the man never looked at him twice. So he was an Englishman, in a dark coat and a soft hat, and carrying a rolled umbrella. And the other Englishman? Galitsin had left him in the station yard at Yeovil, in the back seat of his car. He would have been found by now. Galitsin hoped so. Without his clothes Martle would soon grow very cold. He sat back, looked out of the window. It was late after
noon, and already dark. Cars streamed past in an endless blaze of lights. London by night. Rauser, in one of his expansive moods, had said they would take a tour of London by night, after the tournament. 'You will enjoy that, Comrade Captain,' he had said with a portentous wink. 'There are things to be done in London which cannot be done anywhere else in Europe. And that includes Hamburg.'

And here he was, in London, by night. On his way to see a whore. Rauser would approve. Too late he remembered that she had asked him to telephone first. Strange, he had forgotten that even when looking up her name in the book. He had been too excited, by what he had done, by the thought of seeing her again, holding her in his arms again. Besides, it hardly mattered. If she was busy, he would wait." And Irena would cancel her next customer for him.

Yes, Rauser would approve. Of everything. Providing he continued as he was planning. But he was not planning. He was not planning anything any more. He was only aware that something had gone terribly wrong at the very moment everything had seemed to be going right. He could no longer lay plans, make decisions, because he no longer had any confidence in his ability to carry out those plans, implement those decisions. He had been wanting, hurrying onwards, for too long. Now he could only travel in the same direction. To Irena, and then . . . then he wasn't sure at all. But he thought it would be amusing to see Rauser's face when he walked in the door. And Tigran Dus's face. And Helena's. But perhaps Helena would be disappointed.

'Where did you say, mate?' asked the taxi-driver.

'Where are we now?' Galitsin asked.

'Park Lane. You said to drive along Park Lane.'

'That is correct. I will get out here.'

The taxi-driver shrugged, stopped, consulted his meter. Galitsin paid him, buttoned Martle's topcoat—it seemed a surprisingly good fit—walked down the street. Still the cars streamed by. He had never supposed there were so many cars in the world. And England was not an especially car-wealthy nation, according to Nancy. Not like the United States. It was a pity he would never get to the United States now. It might have been fun with Nancy. But not for Alexander Galitsin.

He had bought a map,
and with its aid he knew where
he was going. He picked his way from street to street, arrived at the one he wanted. A mean street, unlike any of the others. A street which in Mayfair seemed out of place. A suitable place for
a
whore to hide, even
a
whore who could afford
a
mink coat

He found the number, opened the street door, gazed
at
the lift, the list of numbers. Miss Smith was on the fourth floor. And this was much better. Not only the lift
.
The new carpet on the floor and the stairs, the fresh paint Irena
at
least had
a
landlord who knew the value of appearance.

He stepped inside, pressed the ascent button. He was pleasurably excited once again. He wondered what she would say, what she would do. What they would say, and do, together. What she would try to persuade him to do, afterwards. He hoped she would try to persuade him to stay.

The lift stopped. Galitsin crossed
a
small hall, tried the door. It was locked. He pressed the bell, and after
a
moment the door was opened by a young Negress, who gazed at him with frightened eyes. 'Yes?'

'I wish to see Miss Smith.'

^You have an appointment?'

'No. But she will see me. Tell her that Sandor is here.' The girl stepped aside. 'You can come in.' 'Thank you.'
Galitsin went into another hall.
'In there.' She pointed at a door.

'Thank you,' Galitsin said again. He opened the door, stepped into a bedroom decorated in green. It was empty, but it smelt of Irena, of the way she had smelt in Hastings, the new scent, the scent of a successful woman. Now he was nervous. He stood in front of the mirror, gazed at the stranger in the ill-fitting coat. He looked more odd than he had supposed. He took the coat off, placed it on a chair, rested his umbrella and hat on top of it. Now he was Galitsin again, and this was important. And he was tired. How tired he had not suspected. The weariness of fear, of tension, of wondering when the hand would descend on his shoulder, whether it would be a British or a Russian hand, wondering which fate would be worse.

The bedroom door opened, and Galitsin turned, the weariness dropping from his shoulders, the excitement of seeing Irena bubbling through his veins like champagne.

But it was not Irena in the doorway. It was a tall young man in a chauffeur's uniform.

Alan Shirley wrote in his diary: 'Page
7,121, 30th
January,
1958.
Alexander Galitsin! Whoever would have supposed that so unimportant a young man could be the cause of so much trouble. The British police wish him for assault and battery, larceny of one motor car, and various other small items. The Russians want him, or at least having decided to make a splash about his disappearance, they must pretend that they do. Nancy wants him. I should imagine the poor kid is in about the same mental state she thinks Galitsin is in, by now, a mixture of having fallen in love for the first time in her life and having a sense of guilt for the first time in her life.

'And presumably someone else wants him as well, and has got him. It is not practical for a foreigner to disappear so completely in this country, especially with so many people looking for him. Alexander Galitsin assaulted James Martle, exchanged clothes, took a train from Yeovil to London, and a taxi from Waterloo Station to Park Lane, turned down Curzon Street, and there he disappeared. Repeat, that is not possible.

'And I would like him also, to break that square jaw into several pieces.

'But then it is possible that if that unknown fourth party or parties
have
got hold of him, then his jaw has already been broken into several pieces. I wonder if we shall ever know?'

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