Brian Freemantle - The Bearpit

‘I’m sorry, Yevgennie. Really sorry.’

‘I’m hoping they’ll let her out, eventually. I know it wouldn’t be for a long time. But eventually,’ said Levin.

Proctor hesitated again. Finally he said ‘Sure’ in a voice from which he didn’t try to keep the doubt.

‘How quickly can you get me out?’ demanded Levin.

‘A day or two. Three at the outside.’

‘How?’

‘We’ll use the book displacement, like before. But the American edition. Check every afternoon: it’ll mean we’ll be ready, that night.’

‘Where?’

‘How freely can you move?’

‘Dolya has agreed to my taking Galina out in the evenings,’ said Levin. ‘It shouldn’t be difficult.’

‘You know the Plaza Hotel?’

‘Yes.’

‘There are two entrances, one directly from Central Park South, with the main doors fronting on to Fifth Avenue,’ set out Proctor. ‘When you get the signal enter from the park, as if you’re going to Trader Vic’s or the Oak Room. I’ll pick you up in the lobby: we’ll go straight around and exit by the main door. We’ll have cars waiting: the parking area is convenient. How’s that sound?’

‘Almost too simple.’

‘The simple way is always the best way.’

‘What time?’

‘It’s got to seem like a dinner outing, right? Let’s say seven: but we’ll build in contingency time. Don’t want to screw up over something as innocent as a traffic block, crossing town.’

‘How long?’

‘Thirty minutes,’ said the American. ‘I’ll definitely be there at seven – earlier, in fact – and I’ll wait until seven thirty. If you’re not there by then I’ll know there’s a problem.’

‘It wouldn’t automatically mean I’ve been stopped.’

‘I realize that,’ said Proctor. ‘If you’ve got to cry off for any reason, just let yourself be seen around the UN the following day: we’ll be watching. And waiting in exactly the same way, that night. And the following night, if necessary.’

‘It’ll work, won’t it?’ said Levin in sudden urgency.

‘We’ll make it work,’ assured Proctor. ‘Everything’s going to be all right, Yevgennie. Believe me.’

‘I want to,’ said Levin. Then he said: ‘Petr is sixteen.’

‘Yes?’ said the American curiously.

‘You’ll make everything possible for him, won’t you? High school, college. Things like that? I’ve earned it, after all.’

‘It’ll all be taken care of,’ promised Proctor in further reassurance. ‘There’ll be a safe house. New identities. Money.’

‘I’ll cooperate,’ said Levin, making a promise of his own.

‘I know you will.’

‘And Natalia?’

‘What about her?’

‘Will you – your people – try to help me there, too? Through the State Department, maybe?’

‘We’ll do what we can: I’ll personally ask Washington for advice, to work out the best way.’

‘Just three days?’ queried Levin, as if he found it difficult to believe.

‘At the outside.’

‘Thank you, David. For everything. You’re a good friend.’

‘There won’t be any problems.’

‘It’s difficult to imagine that right now,’ said Levin. ‘All I can think of right now is that I’ve made a terrible mistake.’

On the other side of the World, Yuri Vasilivich Malik was also reflecting upon mistakes, trying to assess their potential – and personal – danger. At his inferior, first-posting level it would be a mistake to interfere in what he knew was being planned but of which he was officially supposed to know nothing. Yet the retribution operation that Ilena had disclosed to him was madness. And could only result in the sort of disaster that had so very recently engulfed the GRU; maybe even a worse disaster. By which, therefore, he could be destroyed. So either way he lost. The decision, then, had to be one of degrees, between the greater and the lesser.

One of his instructors at the Metrostroevskaya Street training school – into the idiosyncracies of the American language and its slang – had been a pale-skinned, pale-haired American trapped by his homosexuality into passing over US defence secrets from Silicon Valley who’d chosen defection when his FBI arrest became inevitable. Yuri had particularly liked the expression encompassing indecision: either shit or get off the pot. He’d never expected it to become personally applicable.

It took only three hours for Yuri to complete the confirmatory round journey to the military section of Kabul airport – aware it might also provide some minimal protection against any later punishment of Ilena, if there were an inquiry into his source – and return to the embassy by noon. He bypassed his own cramped, junior office in the rezidentura – and Ilena’s separate accommodation, because he did not want to frighten her – to make his way directly to the comparatively expansive quarters of Georgi Petrovich Solov.

‘Yes?’ inquired the duty clerk.

‘I have to see the Comrade Rezident,’ said Yuri. He added: ‘Upon a matter of the utmost urgency and importance.’

Protocol within the KGB is more strictly regimented and observed than it ever was in the court of the Tsars and the Kabul controller considered himself in an impossible position having the son of someone now a First Deputy dumped upon him. More so because there had been no instruction – not even discreet guidance – from Moscow how to treat the man, which there should have been. It left him exposed. Forced into creating his own guidelines, Georgi Solov had so far proceeded with caution, even supported by the courage imbued by vodka. A native of Askhabad, just across the border in Turkmeniya – where his parents had actually been practising Muslems – the narrow-faced, burnt-skinned Solov was fluent in three local dialects as well as Farsi, looked more Afghan than southern Russian and rightly considered himself a natural choice to head the rezidentura. Assigning this man, with his fair-haired, open-faced Western complexion, collar-and-tie-and-suit appearance (which he made no effort to modify) and complete lack of any language qualifications, made as much sense as delegating him to the moon. Probably less; on the moon he could have mingled more easily with the American astronauts. Without question it was an appointment about which to be suspicious. And careful. But at the same time not allowing the slightest indication of subservience, which might equally be an error. With that in mind, Solov actually thought of refusing the demand for an unscheduled meeting, insisting the man return for a later appointment. But there was the high-priority retribution business, so Solov decided a delay was an unnecessary reminder of his seniority. But with some regret.

Solov didn’t offer a chair and tried to open forcefully, intending the younger man to be intimidated by his appearing irritated. He said: ‘I certainly hope this is something of the utmost urgency and importance!’

‘I have just returned from the airport,’ announced Yuri, unimpressed. ‘Seen barrels and containers of gas and poison being unloaded from transporters.’ Two things were important: frightening the pompous fool and hinting he knew everything, which he almost did.

Impressions – uncertainties – swirled through Solov’s mind like sand in a storm. It was strictly forbidden for a junior KGB officer to go in or out of the rezidentura without stating his destination and reason in the logbook. Which Yuri Malik well knew. Yet the man was standing there almost proudly declaring a breach of regulations. Unworried by any thought of being disciplined then: an important consideration. At once there came to Solov another and maybe more important awareness. The Eyes-Only Moscow traffic had been strictly limited to himself and maybe five other people, although he supposed wider gossip was inevitable once the shipments started to arrive by air. But had the man known in advance, through some other channel? Could the damned man’s posting – the retribution proposal itself – be some sort of test, of loyalty or ability? Proceed cautiously, Solov thought; very cautiously. Trying for the protective barrier of the operating procedure within the intelligence section of the embassy, Solov said: ‘You made no entry of your movements this morning.’