Archangel (32 page)

'To pick him up, bring him in.'

it was a request for information, Mr Millet, not a bloody invitation for your lot to horn in.'

'There's no need to be offensive, Mr Doubtfire.'

it's interference.'

it's a request for a spy to be charged and convicted on the evidence you already hold.'

i'll give you some facts, Mr Millet, some facts of life.

There's no way this man will be picked up at the present time. From what we've seen of him he's a runaround, he's a nothing, too bloody small. We'll recommend no arrests until our Anglesey boy is a great deal higher up the ladder than a chauffeur contact. If we can nail someone at the top of the pecking order, then there'll be arrests .. .'

'But anyone high will have immunity. That's the way they work.'

'I'll give you another fact, Mr Millet. Our concern is to prevent Soviet intelligence-gathering in the United Kingdom, simple enough brief. We don't give a hoot whether their operatives are in gaol here, or bound for home on an Aeroflot. Why do you want a man in gaol?'

'We'd like to be in the barter game.' Misery in Millet's admission.

'Who's so precious?'

'One of ours.'

'So we blow what might be interesting, what might be trivial, to bail you lot out?'

'That's the request, that you give us a body.'

is your man important?'

'We want him home. He shouldn't be there.'

'Then he shouldn't have been sent.'

'That's history. And you playing a pompous shit doesn't rewrite it.'

Millet caught at Doubtfire's arm. The path around them was empty. The traffic murmured down the Mall behind the sentry line of trees.

'And he's your field man, Mr Millet?'

'Christ, and you're fast at seeing the light. . . I'm sorry.

He's my field man, and he shouldn't be there, and we want him home, and I have to report to the Deputy Under Secretary in twenty-five minutes, and my field man has in front of him fourteen years of Strict Regime in a Correctional Labour Colony. That's why I want a chauffeur without immunity charged and convicted.'

Doubtfire watched the water rippling around two fighting drakes. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and slowly, loudly, blew his nose, then folded it again and returned it to his trousers. The rainwater ran down his nose.

'Very eloquent, Mr Millet... I'll give you some more of the facts of life. Such a thing would be above Deputy Under Secretary and Director General level. That's a ministerial matter. If you want to involve the clowns, that's your affair.

Foreign Secretary will have to talk to Home Secretary.

That's how it will have to be.'

'We're supposed to be on the same side and fighting the same enemy, Mr Doubtfire.'

'An interesting concept - we'll just have to see if Home Office and Foreign Office agree.'

'Thanks for bugger all.'

'Not fair, Mr Millet. For someone who's cocked something rotten, I think we're being rather kind to you. I hope we can reach an agreement through the clowns. I'd hate to think of a man stuck in those camps for fourteen years with nothing to think about but the incompetence of the chappie who sent him.'

'You're a right bugger.'

'And that's better than being a failure, Mr Millet.'

They parted on the lakeside path, Millet striding fast back towards Century, Doubtfire ambling slowly in the direction of Charing Cross underground station.

Rocking with the motion of a puppet manipulated by uneven lengths of twine, the senior official of the Procurator General trailed his damaged foot along the corridor towards his superior's office. The Procurator General always worked late into the evening, and his senior official stayed close to the seat of power until the departure of the black limousine from the Ministry's courtyard. The senior official fed from the Procurator General's table, and he was not one to leave before every useful crumb had been gobbled.

He was only just in time.

'Yes?'

'I thought you would like to know, Comrade Procurator, that the men who escaped last night from ZhKh 385/3/1

have been recaptured . . . '

'That couldn't wait till the morning?'

it was right that you should know the details at the earliest possible moment, since the escape involves State Security.'

'How is State Security involved in that crap pile?'

'One of the prisoners to break out was an Englishman, but of Soviet parentage, and serving fourteen years for espionage.'

'A fucking spy was allowed to break out?'

'You will remember I have drawn attention to Major Vasily Kypov's command twice in the past few weeks.

Events in that camp have shown a disturbing laxity. I have to report a certain criticism from State Security that a prisoner of such sensitivity should have been able to cut his way out of the camp.'

The Procurator General's gaze sharpened, in the face of this criticism, what is the wish of the State Security in relation to the spy?'

'He will be moved.'

'Soon?'

'Within a few days, when arrangements have been made.'

'And the criticism . . . ?'

it was sharp.'

'The prisoner will be in the punishment cells until he is moved?'

'Of course.'

'Thank you.'

'Good night, Comrade Procurator, I wish you a safe journey home.'

'I'm bored to tears with Intelligence. Do you understand me?'

The Foreign Secretary poked a bony index finger into the shirt front of the Deputy Under Secretary. They stood beside a curtained window away from the table where a dozen guests sat amongst brandy glasses and cigar smoke.

'Nevertheless I wanted to bring the matter to your attention before my departure for Washington.'

'You've let yourself down, man, you know that. Something pressing, you said, and I've a damned table full of people to look after. You reckon this is pressing? Eh ? You're obsessed with Intelligence. You forget other people are not.'

The Foreign Secretary looked with longing over the shoulder of the Deputy Under Secretary towards his guests, the decanter, their conversation.

'So what do you want from me?'

'Only some sort of commitment.'

'Commitment to what?'

'To argue our corner with Security.'

'And supposing what you call "our corner" diverges from policy, the policy of Her Majesty's Government.'

'I don't understand you, sir.'

'Straightforward, I would have thought... Intelligence is covert warfare. I am responsible for gathering Intelligence, I am also responsible for diplomacy. Diplomacy is not a battleground, it is an exercise in building bridges of trust.'

'I don't understand you, sir.'

'Policy accepted by Cabinet is currently directed towards a renewal of detente between our side and the Soviets, in words of one syllable. If I support the dredging into custody of a nondescript Trade Delegation chauffeur and his subse-quent conviction in a blare of publicity, then I can hardly be accused of pursuing a policy of detente with enthusiasm.

Charge this driver and I'll lose the Parliamentary delegation to Moscow next week. Stands to reason that they have to retaliate. . . What's the name of this fellow you want back?

Remind me.'

'Michael Holly. He's there because of our mistake, Foreign Secretary.'

'Because of your department's mistake, I should ride across H M G policy?'

'We would greatly appreciate it if you would argue our corner with Security.'

'You're not prepared to forget about this young man, this Michael Holly?'

'I said to the desk officer who despatched him that if he ever forgot about Michael Holly I'd break his neck.'

With an involuntary and sharp little movement, the Foreign Secretary stepped back as if suddenly intimidated.

He gazed into the face of the Deputy Under Secretary but met only the clear hazel eyes, unblinking and without emotion. A slow smile spread across the Foreign Secretary's mouth.

'I believe you're bullying me, Deputy Under Secretary.'

'Sir?'

'I'll argue your corner.'

'Thank you, sir.'

if you hadn't used that one word, I would never have agreed. Whenever the time comes I would like to meet this Holly who so stirred the conscience of the Service.'

if you're sure you wouldn't be bored, sir.'

They laughed together, in quiet conspiracy. And the pointed fingers of the Foreign Secretary tapped on the Deputy Under Secretary's shoulder in happy rhythm at the secrecy of their joke.

Millet was a lonely passenger off the last train.

It was more than an hour since the Deputy Under Secretary had telephoned through to the East European desk where Millet had waited throughout the evening in the company of the night staff. Alan Millet was to prepare a paper that would go to Foreign and Commonwealth. And the conclusion was better than DUS had thought possible.

Not all victory, of course; a bit of give and take. Security would be offered complete freedom to decide when any pick-up might be effected.

And, of course, they might not bite. Taking everything for granted, Millet reckoned. There was nothing to say the Soviets wanted a creepy chauffeur back so badly that they would be prepared to wipe out Alan Millet's failure. But it was a beginning, it was a journey started.

Late at night, past midnight, and Alan Millet was heading for the one person that he must tell of his efforts for Michael Holly's release.

He paused in front of the door. What the hell was he doing there? Smearing his failure around the south-west London suburbs. Out of his mind he must have been, to believe that he could spread that failure and then drape over it a boast of his success. Loud, lively music cascaded over him, dancing music. Perhaps his nerve would not hold against the barrage of noise - shouting, singing, movement and happiness. Perhaps he would walk away, find a telephone box and ring for a mini-cab home. The door mocked him. He was cold, he was wet, he was part of a faraway camp. That camp had no place in the life blood of a party.

The door shut out the camp. His fingers found the bell button and pressed.

A young man opened the door, glass in hand. A young man who was a little drunk and trying to relate to an intruder in a wet raincoat standing in the doorway.

'Yes?'

'I've come to see Angela.'

His eyebrows flickered upwards, surprised. He giggled.

'She's a bit busy . . . '

Millet pushed his way past the young man. He stepped over the legs of a couple twined on the floor in the corridor.

He came to the entrance of the living room, stared into the hushed light, winced at the noise, searched for the face of the woman he must speak with.

'Did you bring a bottle, squire . . . ?' The young man shouted behind him.

He might have been black, he might have had the plague.

The dancers watched him, the couples on the floor watched him, those on the sofa watched him. The music boomed at his ears. He felt the dampness in his shoes, he felt the wetness of his trouser legs. The heat and the smoke were suffocating.

He couldn't see her. Amongst all the faces grinning at him as if he was a zoo freak, he could not find her.

He turned back to the young man who had opened the door to him. 'I have to speak to Angela.'

Again the giggle. 'I said she was busy.'

'Get her,' Alan Millet said. He'd pissed about long enough with these idiots.

'Who the bloody hell do you think you are, bloody secret police . . . ?'

'Get her.'

Millet's voice slashed the shriek of the young man's laughter.

'Please yourself, squire.'

The young man went to the bedroom door, closed. He knocked lightly and when it opened an inch he whispered into the crack. Millet couldn't hear what he said against the force of the record player. The dancers now swirled around him, ignoring him. He was isolated from these people, cocooned from them, kept apart by the wire of a camp across a continent, like a membrane. What did these shits know of a man in a strict regime Correctional Labour Colony.

What did any man know? What did Alan Millet know?

The door opened. She came out, her face expectant and puzzled and her fingers fiddling with the blouse buttons.

Millet was sweating in the damp closeness of his raincoat.

He thought he might be sick. An unstubbed cigarette burned smoke into his nose. She hadn't tucked her blouse into her jeans. She was barefoot. Her hair fell half across her face.

She saw Millet. She blinked at him, confused.

'What are you doing here?'

'I had to see you.'

'What about?'

The dancers veered between them. A man with a loose beard stood behind her in the doorway, trying to play protector, his hand resting confidently on her shoulder. He looked annoyed.

'About Michael Holly.'

'You bloody promised . .. you promised you'd never come again . .. it's my birthday, you know t h a t . . . you're barging in on my birthday . . . '

'I have to talk to you about Holly.'

The young man behind Millet said, 'You're out of turn, squire.'

No dancing now. The living room and the corridor to the bedroom door were a cockpit. Conflict, anger, rising across the space between Millet and Angela.

'Quit while you're in one piece,' the man behind her said.

She brushed away the hand on her shoulder, shrugged helplessly and pushed back her hair. She came to Millet and took his hand and led him through an aisle of hostility into the kitchen. She jerked with her thumb towards the door for those in there to leave. She kicked the door shut behind the last of them.

'You'd better take your coat off. Will you drink something?'

'I won't, thank you.'

She pulled out a kitchen chair, slid it towards Millet, and perched herself on a stool.

'What must you talk to me about?'

Better if he had never come. Better if he had turned away at the door. Better if he had not seen the small reddened swell at her neck.

'I came to talk about Holly.'

'I'm not involved with Michael Holly.'

'I came to tell you what was happening about Holly, what we hope will happen.'