The Avenue of the Dead (28 page)

He glanced round; Kidson shook his head. Spencer-Barr said viciously, ‘I can think of one. Just keep your nose out of CIA business in future. If you had come to us with that woman's accusations against Fleming, instead of playing your own double game behind our backs, none of this would have happened. We'd have broken her.'

‘Then why the hell didn't you?' Kidson rounded on him. ‘You questioned her, but you didn't get anywhere near the truth. You knew there was a security check going on from our side and you ballsed it up yourself! You had her in your hands, and you let her walk away. And the KGB pulled her out from under your bloody noses.'

‘One minute,' Davina interrupted. ‘Fighting each other isn't going to help. That's part of what Borisov wants us to do. Humphrey, you said just now that he was cleverer than Kaledin. Keeping the real Elizabeth alive all this time and then substituting her body for his agent. Well, I don't agree with you. I think that was his one mistake.'

The three men stared at her.

‘The KGB have never murdered their agents unless they turned double. Borisov's mistake was to follow the tradition and get the woman out. He should have killed her as well as the other poor creature. Then we might never have stumbled on the truth. I believe this one mistake has given us a chance. A chance in a million, but it's the only one we have.'

‘Go on,' Humphrey Grant murmured. The atmosphere in the room was charged with tension. There was a taut excitement in her voice and in the abrupt movement of her hands as Davina spoke again.

‘I've been thinking all the time, how did they do it? How did they find someone so like Elizabeth Carlton that they could deceive Fleming – never mind me? The answer is they couldn't; what they did was pick a woman who was very similar and then they made her into a double. And I'm damned sure where they did it, and you'll find that they held poor Liz there too, modelling from life. Fleming said when he left Mexico, Elizabeth went to a clinic at Tula. For two months. You remember, John? Yet my enquiries showed she was going straight back to New York. She must have been kidnapped at the airport and taken to the clinic. And that's where they did the plastic surgery on the other one. The Quetzalcoatl Clinic at Tula.'

‘That makes sense,' Humphrey said slowly. ‘That's very clever, Davina.'

‘I'm waiting for the million-to-one chance,' Spencer-Barr snapped.

Davina didn't look at him. ‘The only way we can wreck this for Borisov is to produce the double,' she said. ‘They'd have to change her again; she couldn't risk being seen anywhere until they'd operated. My guess is, she's at the same clinic in Mexico.' She turned to Spencer-Barr. ‘I want a plane to take me there,' she said. ‘I'm going to book myself in for treatment. If she's there, I'll find her and I'll bring her back. But I want Colin as back-up, and I want your director's assurance that there'll be a complete security clamp down on the whole business.'

‘For how long?' he demanded. ‘It won't keep more than a few days – there's talk already that Fleming's illness is a fake-up for a nervous breakdown or a bust-up in the marriage. It's like keeping the lid on a burning powder keg.'

‘Then I suggest you sit on top of it,' Davina said. ‘I want to fly down this afternoon. Can you arrange that?'

He looked sullen and then said, ‘I'll have to check with my director.'

‘There's the telephone.'

He gave her a look of real hatred, then he went over and picked up the receiver. Forty minutes later it was all arranged. She said goodbye to Humphrey Grant and Kidson alone. They were on their way to Langley by helicopter. A private executive jet ostensibly owned by an electronics company would fly her and Lomax to Mexico later that day. She had booked in for a week's slimming course at the clinic under the name of Mrs Maxwell. Grant shook hands with her. ‘Be careful,' he advised. ‘You are going into a hornets' nest, you know. This place must be Russian run and controlled.'

‘More like a snake pit,' she countered. ‘Tula is the city of the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl, the Plumed Serpent. That's why they named the clinic after it. Don't worry, Humphrey. I know what I'm up against. I shall be very, very careful, and I'll have Colin near at hand.'

‘Bring her back,' Humphrey murmured in his flat little voice. ‘Just bring her back.'

Kidson put his arm around her. ‘For God's sake,' he said, ‘don't risk yourself in a place like that …'

She knew what he was thinking. ‘They'll never get their hands on me like that again,' she said. ‘Wish me luck, John, and don't worry. I owe it to Liz Carlton, too.'

‘She has to have time,' Humphrey explained to the head of Chancery. ‘We have a leak here in the embassy – no, no, don't get fussed, we know all about it in London; it suited us to leave it unplugged for the time being. Hickling isn't aware of it, and he's going anyway, as you know. Neil Browning is the chap.'

He gave a sepulchral smile at the other's exclamation.

‘Browning? But he's such a pleasant fellow – and he hasn't any classified information to pass on!'

‘You can deduce more from embassy gossip than from a lot of files,' Grant said acidly. ‘I want you to send him home immediately. Tell him it's an interview for a new post. Get him on the plane as soon as possible and don't let him communicate with anyone outside.'

‘I'll see to it,' the head of Chancery said. He paused for a moment. ‘It would help all of us,' he said, ‘if you people in London didn't keep us in the dark about this kind of thing.'

‘I do apologize,' Grant said. ‘But keeping people in the dark is what our Service is all about, isn't it? I must hurry now, I'm afraid. If you need to contact me, I'm with our friends at Langley.' He hurried away, and the head of Chancery said something very undiplomatic under his breath.

There was nothing faked about Browning's enthusiasm when he heard the news.

‘A new posting? Well, that's very exciting, sir. Can I ask where it's likely to be?'

‘I'm sorry, but I can't discuss it with you. London wants you to return immediately, so it must be something fairly important.'

He made himself smile and sound congratulatory. ‘If you rise to this, you could do your career a power of good. It's a bit sudden, but we can get you on to the five o'clock from Kennedy if you catch the shuttle. Actually there's a Queen's messenger going too, so you might as well travel together.'

‘Yes, fine,' Browning agreed. ‘I'll go and pack a bag. I'll be sorry to leave Washington, of course – everyone's been very good to me here.'

‘I'm glad you feel that.'

‘I do indeed,' Neil said heartily. ‘But I'm about ready for a change. Thank you, sir, and – er, goodbye!'

‘Goodbye. Good luck in your new job.' He looked at the door which had closed behind Neil Browning. ‘I can't believe it,' he said under his breath. ‘A young man like that – good God. Who can you trust.…?'

Neil went off down the corridor. A new appointment – a summons back to London. He couldn't believe his luck. Sorry to say goodbye to Washington? Like bloody hell. He couldn't get out fast enough if it meant leaving Bruckner and his four-eyed friend as far behind as possible. They wouldn't follow him; it wasn't worth their while. He comforted himself with this, stilling the nasty little doubt which said, once you've given in they've got you for life … He packed just enough to get him to London, as he had very little time to catch the shuttle. He wouldn't even have a chance to tidy up his office. He poked his head through the door and his secretary said, ‘Oh, Mr Browning, somebody called Bruckner telephoned about some films.' The happy grin faded quickly. ‘I can't get a line at the moment,' the girl added. ‘Our outside line seems to be on the blink for some reason and the switchboard keeps saying they're busy.'

He looked at his watch. There wasn't time to hang about or he'd miss the shuttle and the connection. He'd tried to pass the information but Bruckner hadn't left a number in New York. Let him carry the hot potato. ‘I've got to catch a plane,' he said. ‘I'm going on a quick trip to London. If he calls again tell him I'll pick up the films when I get back. Bye, Jean. See you.'

There was a car waiting outside. He got into the back and the Queen's messenger grinned at him and said, ‘Hello. We're travelling together, I hear.'

Browning settled back; he felt suddenly weak with relief. With luck he'd never come back to Washington. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘It'll be great to see England again.'

In his office behind the shop, Bruckner dialled Browning's office number for the third time. He swore repeatedly in German as he punched the buttons on the dial. First the bastard was out, then he couldn't get the right connection when he asked for the extension. Finally he got Browning's secretary. His face turned a deep red when he got the message. No, she said firmly, she didn't know when Mr Browning would be back. He'd collect the films when he returned, that was all she knew. Bruckner rammed the telephone down so hard it jangled in protest.

His New York contact had snarled at him like a tiger with adenoids. Find Browning – get the answer from him! But Browning hadn't tried to reach him; the dumbbell in the shop was sure about that. And she got surly when he started yelling and gave in her notice. That was all he needed. New York breathing down his neck and having to find a new assistant. He pulled a bottle of bourbon out of his desk drawer and swigged from it. His temper rose as the whisky took effect. He thought of the girl outside, and her stupid little face pouting at him swam before his eyes. He needed to take it out on someone before that shortsighted kike started ripping pieces off him. He pushed back his chair. He'd kick her ass right out of the front door. He knocked his chair over and swung round, blaspheming. His arm hit the telephone and sent it crashing to the floor. There was another loud mechanical squawk from it. He bent down and picked it up. The base was broken. He stared at it and put the receiver to his ear. It was dead. He roared an obscenity and started for the shop.

The girl had heard the noise of his chair falling. She followed instinct and the instructions she had received only that morning. If anything happens, don't wait around. Don't even pick up your handbag. Run. She ran.

Bruckner's shop was empty. The nearest public phone booth was two and a half blocks away. He slammed the door shut and switched the open sign to closed. The bottle of bourbon waited for him in the back room.

It was well past five when he had finished half the bottle and made his way to the parking lot. He was driving along Pennsylvania Avenue when a car cut across him. Bruckner rammed the accelerator down and drew up alongside at the traffic lights. He leaned out of the window and yelled a string of abuse at the driver. It was part of the ill luck that had dogged his day that the car should be driven by an off-duty policeman who booked him for drunken driving. He spent the night in the cells at the Central Police Station, and the only person they allowed him to telephone was his lawyer. Due to the time difference between Moscow and the United States, it was an extra day before Igor Borisov knew that his Washington connection had broken down.

But the night before he spent part of the evening with Natalia in the discreet little two-roomed flat in the suburbs of Moscow. They had made love, and as usual they were sitting together in the late sunlight, talking. He talked while she watched and listened, and sometimes asked one of her preternaturally shrewd questions.

‘I can confess to you now,' he said, ‘there were many times in the past year when I thought it would all end in disaster. Think of it, Natalia – an intelligence operation of this importance at the mercy of a drunken slut! If I had known she would start drinking, I would never have gone through with it.'

‘And think what a loss that would have been,' she reminded him. ‘You took the risk, my love, and it succeeded.

‘No.' He shook his head. ‘I took other risks, but I didn't take that one. That's something I hope I have learned, that the only risk worth taking is a calculated one. I calculated all of them. The woman's past record, her basic stupidity, the chance that someone somewhere would catch her out. I made an absolute analysis of everything against it, and then I set down the things in favour.

‘Her cunning – she was always cunning like an animal. Predators develop cunning to protect themselves. She was asked to impersonate another person, to memorize her gestures, accent, past connections – to study Elizabeth Carlton as if she was rehearsing for a play. She could learn lines, we knew that because of her time in Hollywood. Acting is deception; she had learned to assume other personalities and believe in them. And then there was the basic resemblance. The Hollywood blonde – one would think they turned them out of plastic moulds. The hair, the featureless little cheap faces, the teeth created in the dental surgeries, the breasts pumped full of cellulose! She was nothing like the English woman except for her figure and the colour of her eyes. But all the surgeon needed when he saw her was to change the nose and open out the eyelids. I saw the finished photographs. It was incredible; they were identical. And it appealed to her vanity. Do you know, my Natalia, what decided it for me? The woman had one ambition – to be a famous actress. She went to acting school, she studied, she paid for elocution lessons and dance lessons by sleeping with men. But she didn't get anywhere though she was a better actress than many of the ones that did become world-famous. That made her bitter. She was ready for anything when we recruited her. She wasn't getting work. And then this role was offered to her. That was the sum of my risks and the gains. But I didn't foresee that she would go to pieces under the strain of living her life with Fleming. When I first heard she was drinking, I thought of having her removed. The one person I really feared was Davina Graham. But you helped me, sweetheart. You saw into the mind of a woman who meets someone she hasn't really known since they were at school, and you reassured me. She will accept her because she didn't like her, and she won't be surprised to find that she has become even less likable. All she will see, you said to me, is what she is expecting to see. And now, at last, it's nearly over.'