The Avenue of the Dead (9 page)

‘Clever men don't frighten me,' she said. She couldn't resist the thrust. ‘Not after Sasanov.' She put the receiver down without saying goodbye.

The new director of the CIA was taking a long weekend fishing in Canada. He and his family were outdoor people who enjoyed skiing and sailing, and played ball games with competitive skill. The director was relaxing with his wife on the banks of one of the inlets of the lake when a voice called to him from the pathway behind. He turned in surprise, and saw that the figure walking towards him was of a well-built man in his late thirties, with fair hair that gleamed in the crisp sunshine and a short, purposeful walk. The director set his rod and went to meet him.

‘Jeremy! Hi – this is a surprise.'

Jeremy Spencer-Barr shook hands. His voice had a slight North American inflexion but he was obviously an Englishman who was living in the States. ‘I'm sorry to break in on your weekend, sir,' he said. ‘Believe me, I wouldn't have come down unless it was important. Hello there, Mrs Drew. How are you?'

The director's wife was a handsome woman, noted for her intelligence and strength of character. She had been married to her husband for thirty years, borne him four children, and been the mainstay of his career. She shook hands with Jeremy Spencer-Barr. Her smile was wide and friendly, but not familiar. She never forgot whose wife she was. ‘Jerry – lovely to see you. I hope it's a nice surprise that brings you here?'

‘That depends,' he said. ‘How are the fish?'

‘Biting, aren't they, Bill?' She trilled her cheerful laugh across the scornful Canadian expanse of glittering lake-water and thrusting pines.

‘Some are,' the director agreed. ‘And then some aren't. Vera, Jeremy and I are going for a walk. Mind my rod, will you?' She smiled her agreement. He wasn't going to catch anything and he wanted to talk to the Englishman alone.

Jeremy Spencer-Barr was his full name. He had been advised very tactfully that Americans didn't like double-barrelled names unless they were used by divorced women, in which case they could run to four or five. It had all been handled with humour and Jeremy had understood and become plain Mr Barr when he took up his job at Langley. Vera didn't know his background exactly, but she understood it was a debt of honour on the CIA's part. They, like the Russians, took pride in looking after their own.

The two men strolled along side by side, hands in pockets, through the pathways that twisted and turned through pine woods as dark as the primeval forests which had once covered the land. It was very quiet and there was no sunlight.

‘There's been a development in the Fleming situation,' Jeremy said. ‘I felt I should come down and see you myself, sir. I have first-hand knowledge that I felt you'd want to have. First-hand, so to speak.'

‘Very thoughtful of you, Jeremy,' the director said. ‘Tell me about it.' He was not just the President's nominee, he was in the truest sense the President's man. The President personified America to him, and the virtues and strengths of America. He was loyal to the country through the man, and the man had a way of gaining people's trust and loyalty and rising above the arrows shot at him by envy, cynicism and decadence. That was how the director saw him, and the role he saw for himself was to defend and protect both the man and the country against its enemies at any cost.

‘It concerns Elizabeth Fleming,' Spencer-Barr said.

The director's exclamation of dislike hung in the dank air under the pine trees like a curse. ‘That goddamned woman,' he said. ‘Tell me.'

‘The SIS have sent someone out from London.' They walked a few paces more, still side by side, heads a little bent.

‘Why should they do that?' the director wondered to himself. The brown eyes swivelled to Spencer-Barr. ‘Why should SIS trouble themselves with her?'

‘I don't know,' Jeremy said. ‘I wouldn't have known they had, except for the person concerned. It's a woman. I used to work with her years ago. She arrived out here on a so-called holiday visit. We get notice of everyone who visits the embassy – it's part of my job to go down the list and check them. I saw this one and I knew there was trouble. She turns out to be a great and good friend of Elizabeth Fleming and they're swanning round Washington together. She's a very competent, dedicated, professional operator. I thought I must come down and see you personally.'

‘I'm glad you did,' the director said slowly. ‘We take this path and it brings us back down to the lake. I don't want the British sticking their noses into our affairs. Edward Fleming is CIA business. He should have gotten a divorce a long time ago. God knows why he puts up with her. You say this woman is a top operator?'

‘One of the best,' Jeremy Spencer-Barr said quietly. ‘I thought she'd retired. I'd like to handle this, sir. I know her. I know how she works. And I'm worried.'

‘So am I,' the director said. They stepped out of the gloom of the pine woods into the crisp air and dazzling sunlight. ‘We can't have problems so close to the President. You have the assignment, Jeremy. But tread softly, boy. Don't step on any twigs.'

‘I won't,' Jeremy Spencer-Barr said. ‘You can rely on me.'

Neil Browning's hobby was photography. He spent a lot of his time photographing interiors; the juxtaposition of inanimate objects interested him, distorted by the use of light and unusual camera angles. He had taken some straightforward views of Washington which were much admired, and people had suggested that he should get enough material together for an exhibition. He had laughed and denied that he was anything better than an enthusiastic amateur who took snaps for his own amusement. He had a collection of expensive cameras and subscribed to the photographic journals; there were albums of colour prints, black and white studies and colour transparencies in his flat; he was a regular customer at the smart camera shop on Lexington Street. That afternoon he walked in out of the humid heat, and went to the counter. The girl smiled at him. ‘Hi, Mr Browning.'

‘Hello,' he said. ‘Is Mr Bruckner around?'

‘He's in back,' she said. ‘I'll get him.'

Curt Bruckner owned the shop. He was a friendly, helpful man who liked to serve good customers himself. He always attended to Neil when he came in. ‘Afternoon there, Mr Browning, what can I do for you?' He was a second-generation German, aged forty-three, balding and with a slight paunch above his trouser belt. He was the most expert man on sophisticated cameras in the city. Neil had discovered him soon after he came to the embassy. He was not above printing one or two erotic studies Neil had taken of his girl friend Cathy.

‘I've got a roll of film,' Neil explained. ‘I'd like these in a hurry. When could you have them ready?'

‘I'm pretty busy right now,' Bruckner apologized. ‘Are you in a big hurry, Mr Browning?'

‘I'm afraid so,' Neil said. ‘I want them urgently. Day after tomorrow at the latest.'

Bruckner puckered his full lips and looked doubtful. ‘Well,' he said, ‘you're one of my regulars, now – I always try to put my regulars up front if I do have a lot of work. Day after tomorrow, they'll be ready.'

‘Thanks,' Neil said. ‘By the way, I've been thinking about that Leica 42. It's a lot of money but I know someone who's got one and they take better pictures than my Zeiss. You wouldn't have one in stock, would you?'

‘No.' Bruckner shook his head. ‘But I could get one for you. I'll make enquiries. How did you find the zoom lens?'

‘Great. I used it on some outdoor shots – they're on that roll. I'm very pleased with it. I'll be round for the prints the day after tomorrow. Morning or afternoon?'

‘Afternoon,' Bruckner said. ‘Gives me more time.'

Neil thanked him and left the shop. Bruckner turned to the sales girl.

‘That son of a bitch,' he muttered, ‘always in a hurry – I'll get on with these right away.'

She shrugged. ‘Why don't you tell him he has to wait?'

‘Because, sweet ass, he's going to buy a fifteen-hundred-dollar Leica 42,' he said, and hurried with Neil's film to the back of the shop and through the door to the darkroom. He did his own developing and printing of the high-class material. He switched on the red light and started work. It was only half a roll; there were a dozen pictures, all of fine quality, and one or two in his opinion were outstanding. He printed the first half-dozen, then examined them, set them aside. The seventh print was an interior, one of Browning's favourite compositions, taken through a prismatic lens, strong sunlight shattering into rainbow colours over a table by a window, through a low bowl of spring flowers, over books and an ashtray with a cigarette sending a drift of smoke into the fiery light. Bruckner took the print outside into his little office and locked the door. He held a magnifying glass to it, bringing one section up to treble size. The books. One of them was on its side, the spine facing the camera. Its title was clearly visible under the glass.
All the President's Men
. Bruckner put the glass away. He picked up the phone and dialled a New York number.

‘This is Bruckner,' he said. ‘Washington Cameras. I have a client wants a Leica 42. Yeah, it's wanted urgently. Day after tomorrow. He'll be in the store that afternoon. Okay? Okay.' He hung up and went back to finish the prints.

Whenever Neil Browning filmed an interior with books, the positioning and the title visible conveyed his message to his controller in New York.
All the President's Men
signified Edward Fleming. The book lying on its side meant that it was an emergency. The request for the Leica 42 was the code Bruckner used with the controller. He had been acting as linkman for the Soviet spy ring in Washington for the past three years. Neil Browning was their newest recruit. He went into the darkroom and printed up the rest of the film.

‘Good morning, Comrade General.'

‘Good morning, Natalia.'

‘I have the latest report in from Jackdaw.'

‘Good – let me see it. Thank you.'

Igor Borisov had dismissed his predecessor's secretary and employed a young woman from the KGB secretarial pool. She had the highest degrees from the secretarial college run by the Service as part of its bureaucracy. She was also feminine to look at, for Borisov had old-fashioned tastes in women. He was very pleased with Natalia Alexvievna's efficiency. Although he was a happily married man, he also enjoyed the sight of her bosom bouncing under her green blouse when she walked towards him.

He opened the report from Jackdaw and read it quickly. Jackdaw was a new recruit, one of his own selections in Washington. A greedy young Foreign Office official with a taste for good living and expensive photography. Art work, Borisov had heard it described. As far as he was concerned, the pictures Neil Browning took of his girl and himself were just pornography. His stupidity in having them printed resulted in a discreet suggestion of blackmail. The ease with which he succumbed to a well-worn threat and the greed with which he accepted payment for his information pointed to a worthless character of short-lived usefulness. Borisov never trusted agents whose motives were either fear or gain, and certainly not both. But unfortunately the true idealists were fewer than they had been. He believed that Soviet action in Hungary and Czechoslovakia had disillusioned many promising recruits in the West, their eyes still full of wartime stars about their allies in the East. A pity, but balanced out by the moral decline of the capitalist nations and their people's lack of faith in anything but their own interests. There were many recruits like Neil Browning, and they were very useful while they lasted. He had given him the code name Jackdaw because of his dishonesty.

Borisov had a samovar in his office; it was the same samovar that had served Kaledin. He poured a glass of tea and lit a strong-tasting Balkan cigarette.

Jackdaw's report held a private fascination for him. The wife of Edward Fleming was attracting sufficient British interest to warrant a London expert coming out. Davina Graham. He sipped the tea. She had missed the car bomb. He didn't regret that. There was no need to kill her with the traitor Sasanov. She had served her own country bravely and well. He remembered the drugged and shattered wreck of a woman who had flown back to England. He had never expected to hear of her again. But she had proved to be very strong. He wondered whether she knew who he was and his responsibility for the car bomb. He dismissed the idea as fanciful. But her presence in Washington added a dimension of personal excitement to the operation involving Edward Fleming. Borisov thought of it as a duel. He smoked his cigarette down and rubbed it out. The idea appealed to him. He knew more about Davina Graham than the Service she worked for. He had seen her before she was repatriated. The image in his mind was quite clear. A pale face, framed by dark red hair. A mouth that could be sensual but was drawn tight in defence against fear. She was brave, intelligent, and highly gifted. A rare and interesting combination in the cold world of international espionage and terror.

And with one devastating human weakness which he knew could be exploited. A deep capacity for selfless human love. He made notes, attached them to the report, rang for Natalia and told her to file it. Then he composed a memorandum to go before the weekly meeting of his colleagues on the Politburo. One lesson among many had been learned. At this stage in his tenure of power, he had to prove his good faith.

He must confer with the other rulers of Russia about the course of his attack upon the new President and his administration in the United States. It was too important to be kept a secret from them.

3

Davina's stay with the Hicklings was cut short. Liz Fleming had helped her find an apartment, a studio owned by an artist friend who was going to Europe for three months. Liz's enthusiasm was too high-keyed, and she seemed almost pathetic in her eagerness to keep Davina in Washington. For Davina, the dependence of the other woman was a suffocating experience. She had never indulged in a close relationship with anyone except Ivan Sasanov; the clinging, never-off-the-telephone friendships enjoyed by some women were difficult for her. By nature she was a private person, and by long training she was of necessity secretive. Her inner self was her citadel and it was being battered down by the demands of a woman who had nothing in common with her except need. She found it a strain, and she began to snap at her colleagues.