The Envoy (37 page)

Vasili was sitting on a bench in the shadow of the Peter Pan statue reading a book. At first, Kit didn’t realise it was him: Vasili’s
features
seemed so sharp and ascetic. The Russian looked like a
poetpriest
rather than a spy. ‘Bless me father, bless me father,’ thought Kit, ‘for I have sinned and need absolution.’

As Kit sat down next to him, Vasili ignored him and
continued
reading. Finally the Russian spoke, but still didn’t look up from his book. ‘Rimbaud, do you know him?’

‘A little.’

‘Translate this, “
La dernière innocence et la dernière timidité
.”’

Kit looked up at Peter Pan. ‘“The last innocence and final timidity.”’

‘And this.’ Vasili continued, ‘“
Ne pas porter au monde mes dégouts et mes trahisons
.”’

‘“Not to carry my disgust and my treasons to the world.”’

‘Next, “
A qui me louer
?’” Vasili then paused. ‘I like these lines, may I translate them myself?’

‘Please.’

‘“To whom shall I hire myself? What beast must I worship? What hearts shall I break? What lies must I believe – In what blood will I walk?”’

Kit put his hand in his pocket and looked up again at Peter Pan. There was no turning back; innocence was long buried. He took the film out of his pocket and handed it to Vasili.

The Russian closed the book of poems. His face seemed to harden. ‘What do you want in exchange?’

‘I want asylum and peace.’

‘For yourself.’

‘No, for two of us.’

‘The scientist’s wife?’

‘Yes.’

Vasili closed his eyes and seemed to stare into an inner space. ‘We’ll need your passports – and recent photographs. Tape them to the bottom of the usual pew at Brompton Oratory – pretend you dropped your rosary. It will take about forty-eight hours to forge your new passports – we’ll choose your new names. On Friday evening there’s an Aeroflot service to Beirut from Gatwick. You’ll be on that plane. You’ll be met by an Englishman who will put you up for the weekend.’

‘Kim Philby?’

‘No questions, Kit, just follow instructions. On Monday
morning
you will board another Aeroflot flight to Moscow.’ Vasili got up to go.

‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me, Kit. I’m not doing this out of friendship. I’m doing it out of duty. I wish this hadn’t happened. Your country needs you more than we do.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are you blind, Kit, are you so in love with this woman that you are blind to your duty? Your country is going into a dark age. Big money buys power and office. The ignorant shout down the educated. You, as a person, had more power than you
realised
– the power of civilised thought and reason. How many like you are left? America is a drunken boat – adrift with no
direction
, laden with nuclear bombs primed to blow up the world five times over and madmen like General Curtis LeMay in charge of the gun decks. You could have tried to grab the tiller, but instead you chose a retirement dacha well stocked with vodka and
caviar
– and Comrades Burgess and Maclean as your regular dinner guests. Goodbye, Kit.’

Kit remained seated staring at the ground. He listened to the sound of Vasili’s footsteps crunching through the gravel as he walked away. Kit wanted to run after him and tell him how wrong he was, but he knew that the Russian wouldn’t understand – wouldn’t understand how a person that you loved could be more important than the universe.

Kit knew that he was paying too much for the Austin A30, but there was no time to haggle – he needed a car quick. He usually drove a new Ford from the embassy motor pool, but he knew that driving a car with diplomatic number plates to Gatwick so that he could defect on a Russian Aeroflot plane was a shit idea. As Kit handed over the cash in crisp pound notes, the dealer assured him that the A30 was ‘a real runner’.

‘Do you mind,’ said Kit, ‘if I keep her here for a few days?’

The dealer could hardly say no because the garage on Manor Road was huge and mostly empty. While the dealer scratched his head, Kit peeled off another note and the garaging was agreed.

‘What sort of business are you in … if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘I work in a bank in the City, I’m a commodities trader.’

‘Well, I’m sure we can do you a better motor than this. Mind you the A30 is …’

‘No, this car,’ Kit gave a leering wink, ‘isn’t really for me – so we don’t want anything too showy.’

‘Sounds like there might be a young lady involved.’

‘That might indeed be the case – so you can see why I want everything to be discreet, including the registration documents.’

The next morning, when Kit handed his ID to the embassy
doorman
, he thought it received more than the usual scrutiny. And, as he made his way through the foyer, there was neither eye
contact
nor a salute from the marine on duty. As usual, Kit shunned the unwelcome camaraderie of the elevator. But as he bounded up the stairs he sensed the paranoia demon jogging and
laughing
beside him. When he got to his office, the DCM, Birch, was seated at Ethel’s desk in the secretarial cubicle. Something was wrong, seriously wrong.

Birch looked up from a report he was reading. ‘Good morning, Kit.’

‘Good morning.’

‘You don’t need to be here today.’

Kit put his briefcase on the desk and looked down at Birch. ‘Why don’t I need to be here today?’

‘Because you are on leave.’

‘For how long?’

‘That depends.’

‘OK.’ Kit picked up his briefcase and turned to leave.

‘Kit.’

‘I’ll keep in touch.’

‘Kit, can I have your keys please?’

Kit reached in his pocket and dropped his office key ring on the desk. ‘Have I been suspended?’

‘I haven’t used that word.’

Kit turned to leave again.

‘And your briefcase.’

‘Sure, but can I keep my spare shirt?’

Birch nodded.

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Kit snapped open the case, took out a freshly laundered white shirt of Egyptian cotton and then left without looking back. As he walked back down the stairs, Kit felt awkward and embarrassed. He realised that he looked pretty silly carrying a shirt and
nothing
else. When he got to the door, a British doorman wearing a regimental blazer asked, ‘Would you like a bag for that, sir.’

‘Please.’

The doorman disappeared into a cubby hole and emerged with a small grey canvas holdall. ‘Can’t have a gentleman
walking
around carrying laundry. It’s not dignified.’ The doorman put the shirt in the holdall and did up the buttons. ‘Here you go, sir, that’s much better. Just drop the bag off next time you’re here.’

‘Thank you.’

Kit emerged blinking into the morning sunlight, his eyes dampened by the gentle gift of unexpected kindness.

Halfway between Colchester and Ipswich, Kit pulled into a garage to have the A30’s oil and water checked. While the mechanic was looking after the car, Kit walked into the village to find a phone. When he finished dialling, he put a finger on the cradle. If Brian answered, he would hang up – he didn’t care what suspicions he aroused.

‘Sudbourne 234.’ It was Jennifer.

‘Can you talk?’

‘Not for long,’ she whispered, ‘Brian’s in his study. He’s
working
from home.’

‘Tell him you’re going for a walk. Remember that abandoned boathouse I told you about on the Butley?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a path to it through the marshes. Can you find your way there?’

‘I think so.’

‘I’ll see there you in two hours – and bring your passport.’

‘I’m not scared, Kit.’

‘I love you. I must go now.’

As Kit walked back to the garage, he began to wonder why Brian was spending so much time at home. What did he know? Was he keeping an eye on Jennifer?

Kit turned off the main road after Woodbridge. As soon as he had crossed Wilford Bridge, where the headwaters of the Deben were dark and dappled by tree shadow, Kit knew that he was deep in hidden Suffolk. He loved that part of the county and wished that he could spend the rest of his life there. He wondered what Russia would be like. Maybe he could learn to love pure snow and endless birch forests too. Kit parked the car at a tiny hamlet called Chillesford where there was a church and five houses. The doorman’s holdall was on the seat next to him: Kit had packed it with a Polaroid camera and a white sheet to use as a backdrop. The holdall bothered him. How would he ever get it back? Maybe he could send it to London in a Soviet Foreign Ministry
diplomatic
bag.

The path to the boathouse hadn’t been used for years. There was marsh and river on one side, and sandy hills with heather on the other. It was the sort of place where children built dens and swore secret oaths. The boathouse itself had been built on one of a number of tidal islands. To get to it, one had to negotiate a series of single and double plank bridges that leapfrogged from one dry clump to another.

When Kit got to the boathouse, he checked his watch. He was five minutes late. He wondered if Jennifer would turn up. The call from the phone box had been reckless; it broke all the rules. It was likely that Jennifer’s phone had been tapped – and she was now being interrogated by the Ministry of Defence security police. But supposing there had been a phone tap, why weren’t the security guys at the boathouse too? On the other hand, what if it was only Brian – and the only thing he had discovered was marital
unfaithfulness
? What would he do? Would he shout at her? Beat her up? Lock her in the house? Kit closed his eyes, but couldn’t block out the horror cinema of the mind: the torn clothing, the bleeding lip, the screams, the pounding fists. But maybe Brian wasn’t like that. Maybe he would just brood his hurt as a silent inner lump. Kit pushed the rotten curtain material back from the door window and looked up the hill, to where the trees faded into heather. There she was: running and bounding down the path like a schoolchild released from a tedious lesson. She’s so beautiful.