Алистер Маклин - Borrowed Time

He opened his eyes and shook himself. He had almost fallen asleep. He tapped a code on the keyboard and a moment later he was connected to the Kremlin Archive, the third biggest database in Europe. The archive, consisting of millions of items of classified matter hijacked by US agents from a KGB hideaway in 1993, was maintained by technical staff of the US Embassy in Rome. The embassy boasted a state-of-the-art computer-communications installation among its other attractions, and in recent months UNACO had been granted unrestricted access to the archive.

Whitlock entered a request to review the picture files, and was asked what kind of pictures. He ticked PERSONNEL: ESPIONAGE. He entered the name Adam Korwin. A pause, then three pictures came up on the screen side by side. The first showed Korwin as a young man, photographed with the onion-domes of St Basil’s in the background. In the second his head had been shaved and he wore a moustache. The third picture showed him as he looked in Clancy Spencer’s snapshot, although the date on this picture was 1989.

Whitlock downloaded the third picture to the printer, and requested that a summary of Korwin’s KGB service record be attached. In a couple of minutes he had a twelve-page dossier, most of it in summary, but impressive enough to put before a techniques-and-procedures review.

Next Whitlock entered a search under the name of Arno Skuttnik. It was a long shot and, as he expected, the archive found no match for that name. One Skuttnik was listed, but his first name was Tibor. Whitlock called for a picture and up came a grainy shot of a young man in a flat cap. The caption said:

Tibor Skuttnik, discipline officer to Narodnyi Kommissariat Vnutrennykh Dyel (People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs) Moscow, 1938: subsequently appointed to Stalin’s private staff – See file under Skuttnik, T.

Whitlock was inclined to leave it there. This was not his man. On the other hand, a look at the file couldn’t hurt. He called it up and a single page appeared on screen. If non-military medals were any guide, Skuttnik had been a good and loyal servant to Stalin; he had worked in the capacity of an enforcer, personally dealing with people who tried to approach their leader at public gatherings, also inflicting summary punishment on any of the domestic staff who fell short of requirements.

Skuttnik had been rewarded in 1948 with an appointment to the Leningrad Intelligence School, a training centre for spies, where he taught unarmed combat.

In the final paragraph the report became vague. Skuttnik, it said, was believed to have been posted as a sleeper to the United States, but confirmation of this was not contained in the archive; it was only mentioned in letters between other Kremlin employees of the time.

Whitlock thought about that. The fact was, a lot of Russian agents were sent to the United States during the fifties and sixties. It would be unprofessional to read anything significant into the last paragraph of the report.

‘We still don’t know who you were, Arno …’

Then, for the first time, Whitlock looked at the caption at the top of the page. It said: Kremlin Service Record – Tibor Arno Skuttnik.

After a bumpy trip – Sabrina estimated it took twenty minutes – the pickup turned off the rough country track and into a wooded hollow between two hills. She was hoisted from the truck by her abductors and frog-marched again, this time into a building that looked like a miniature temple.

Inside someone had been cooking. Analytical as always, Sabrina identified the smells of boiled rice, overcooked green vegetables and dhal. She also identified the man sitting at the far end of the tall central room. It was something of a shock, but she didn’t let the recognition show. Instead, she went on looking scared.

Her captors marched her up to the throne-like chair where the man sat with one leg slung over the arm rest. He had a coarse, once-handsome face, with pads of fat at the temples and under the chin. His hair had receded until the hairline was halfway across the top of his scalp; to compensate, the remaining hair was long and tied back in a ponytail. He wore western clothes like the other two, although his looked much finer.

‘I am Hafi,’ he announced in English.

Hafi Bal Mardekhar, Sabrina recalled, leader of the Khalq faction. He was known to UNACO as a murdering Pakistani bandit with Afghan affiliations, who randomly terrorized towns and villages in northern India and south Kashmir. Like many self-styled warlords he had long ago swallowed his own propaganda and believed himself to be supremely charismatic and a politically important figure.

‘Do you have a name?’ he demanded.

‘I’m – yes – I’m Susan,’ Sabrina faltered. ‘Susan Duke.’

‘Oh.’ Hafi’s stiff face tried to look mocking. ‘Not Nikita, then? Or Petrushka?’

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘You are a Russian infiltrator!’ Hafi shouted. ‘You were trying to mislead us by taking the long route to Pakistan!’

Sabrina fished in her jacket pocket and produced her WHO identification. ‘I work for the World Health Organization. I’m an American.’

‘Paper will take on anything,’ Hafi waved the document away. ‘Besides, I know an infiltrator when I see one.’

‘I promise you, I’m not a Russian,’ Sabrina said, simultaneously thinking what an idiot he was. ‘And anyway,’ she added, ‘what possible reason could Russia have for wanting to infiltrate or invade Pakistan now?’

‘Russia has old scores to settle. Old ambitions to fulfil. Many times they have sent minions to mingle with the people and spread propaganda.’ Hafi leaned forward. ‘They try to establish a base of operations by cunning.’

‘You’ve got me completely wrong, I assure you –’

‘If I thought your masters would listen,’ Hafi interrupted, ‘I would let you go and you could tell them they are wasting their time.’ He smiled in a way that suggested he was trying to look evil. ‘Of course, they wouldn’t listen.’

‘I am a citizen of the United States,’ Sabrina said. ‘I am in India under the terms of an international agreement that protects me from being impeded or molested. I–’

‘You speak good English for a Russian,’ Hafi said. He waved his arm. ‘Take her away.’

She was marched to the back of the tall room, along a short passage and through a narrow doorway to a smaller room, much darker than the other. In the gloom she was aware of other people. There was an unmistakable smell of blood, musty and dried, and an overall odour of decay.

The men pushed her into a corner and went out. The door slammed shut and she heard the key turn.

‘Are you English?’ A woman’s voice whispered.

Sabrina said nothing for the moment. She shut her eyes and counted to a hundred, letting her retinas sensitize and her pupils dilate.

She opened her eyes. The room looked brighter now. There were three other people. One was a man, young and very thin, asleep in a corner. An old woman was huddled on a stained mattress in the opposite corner, her head down and resting on her knees. The third person, a young woman in a blue sari, sat close to Sabrina.

‘Are you?’ she said. ‘English?’

‘American. How long have you been here? What’s going on?’

‘They brought me here yesterday. I am called Deena. I was at work in Chaudhuri, two hours’ travelling from here. I work in a laundry. I was wheeling a basket of sheets across the yard at the back of the laundry when two men came in, grabbed me and put me in a truck. I was brought here and told nothing. But I know who they are. I know it is Hafi and the Khalq.’

‘You speak very good English,’ Sabrina said.

‘I worked in London for three years. Battersea. My visa was withdrawn when my cousin, who sponsored me, was arrested and convicted of selling cannabis.’