Brian Freemantle - The Bearpit

‘No,’ said Levin.

‘Take as long as you want,’ offered Dolya generously. ‘And Yevgennie Pavlovich?’

‘What?’

‘Buy Japanese imports: they’re much more reliable than the American products.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ said Levin uncomfortably.

Levin walked purposefully from the United Nations building, veering right through the forecourt and by so doing going close to the Soviet-presented peace status of the figure wielding a hammer over a broadsword. In the early days of his appointment its inscription – ‘Let us beat swords into ploughshares’ – had amused Levin with its insincerity, but not any longer. He wondered how difficult it would be for him to be amused, ever again. He managed to catch the lights on UN Plaza and continued on down 44th Street, going a full block until he reached Second Avenue upon which he had already isolated a number of electrical stores and shops. He made no effort to establish any surveillance, either hoped-for (so fervently hoped-for) American or hoped-against Russian. The spine-downwards alert dictated that the FBI place him under observation from his moment of departure from the UN building and only make an approach – at their chosen time and location – when they were absolutely certain he was not being followed by his own people. No approach after an hour meant he was being monitored by the Russians and that any American meeting had to be abandoned, to await a later effort signalled by another misplaced book. At the thought of there being no encounter Levin felt perspiration prick out upon his back and form into rivulets. Galina would not be able to withstand any delay: he knew she wouldn’t. He was unsure if he could endure much delay himself. Near 45th Street he bought an electrical travelling iron and a small, electrically operated coffee-bean grinder, unwilling to burden himself with things that were too heavy because he didn’t intend transporting them anywhere anyway. To give his protectors as much help as possible identifying any pursuit Levin went further westwards on 45th, turning to complete the square on Park and skirting the overpowering PanAm building to regain 42nd Street. At the corner with Lexington, near the Grand Central Station complex and its rash of beer-crate and orange-box shoeshine vendors, he felt a presence to his right. A voice said: ‘The Hyatt bar. Not the garden.’

Levin showed no reaction, nor did he attempt to locate the person who gave the instruction, going instead immediately to his left into the waterfall-dominated foyer of the hotel built over the station. As he ascended the escalator to the mid-floor level Levin acknowledged the wisdom of the choice: it was huge and open plan, a human anthill of a place where the FBI could undetectably position as many watchers as they wanted without their becoming the focus of any attention. He turned away from the registration area and went up the next set of steps to the higher level but shook his head against the captain’s smiled invitation to be seated in the frond and flower bedecked garden area overhanging the street, going instead to the squared bar and carefully positioning himself with seats available either side. He paid at once and in cash for his whisky, not charging it to an accumulating tab; it was automatic not to involve himself in hindering delays in case he had to move with abrupt urgency.

Levin didn’t react to the person settling to his left. The voice said: ‘Quite some place’, and Levin smiled sideways, nodding agreement to the most casual of casual conversations, knowing his control wanted it to seem a chance encounter to enable the protectors arranged unseen around them to make the final, positive check for any Russian surveillance.

‘Very impressive,’ agreed Levin.

‘I guess they recycle the water.’ David Proctor was a compact, hard-bodied man who constantly removed and then replaced his heavy horn-rimmed spectacles, as if he were ashamed of the physical frailty which made it necessary to wear them. The man had been appointed Levin’s control immediately upon the Russian’s first approach to the FBI: the circumstances had prevented their becoming anything like friends but from the odd remark Levin knew the American jogged most weekdays and worked out in a gymnasium on Saturdays and Sundays.

‘I guess they do,’ agreed Levin.

‘You put the frighteners into us, Yevgennie,’ said Proctor.

Levin had not been conscious of the clearance being signalled to the other man by someone in the foyer and was glad; it proved they were professional and that he was well protected. He said: ‘I’m frightened myself.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘I’m being recalled.’

With the mixer straw Proctor eased the lemon peel from his martini and idly squeezed it back into the drink. ‘Didn’t expect that,’ he admitted.

‘Neither did I,’ said Levin, waiting.

‘This could be good, Yevgennie. Very good.’

Levin’s response to the predictable suggestion that he continue spying from Moscow was immediate. ‘No,’ he refused.

‘Why not?’

‘A dozen reasons why not,’ said Levin, as forcefully as their surroundings would allow. ‘Working with you here, as I have done for the past year, is altogether different from working for you back in Moscow. And I wouldn’t anyway be working for you, would I? It would mean a transfer to the CIA: extending the knowledge of my identity to another agency and increasing the risk of detection. But that’s not my biggest fear: my biggest fear is that the recall at this time, ahead of when we both expected it, means there’s already some suspicion.’

Trained as he was, Proctor was still unable to prevent the instinctive look beyond them into the vast foyer. He removed, polished and then replaced the spectacles and said: ‘You got any reason for thinking that?’

‘The early recall, like I said. That’s always the most obvious indication. And I haven’t been assigned anything but routine for at least the past three months. You know that.’

‘Frozen out?’ said Proctor, more to himself than to the other man.

‘That’s what I think.’

‘When are you supposed to go back?’

‘Two weeks.’

‘That’s quick, too,’ said the man, in growing acceptance.

‘Too quick. I’m frightened, David. I need help.’

‘Don’t worry,’ placated the American. ‘It’ll be all right.’

‘You any idea how the KGB treat people they believe to be traitors? Remember Penkovsky, who told your CIA about the Cuban missiles so that Kennedy could confront Krushchev? They fed him alive – slowly – into a furnace!

We’re shown a warning film at training schools. He melts!’

‘Easy, Yevgennie. Easy.’

‘I want to come across,’ insisted Levin. There’s a lot I could offer. Structure at the UN. Training. Some of the agent set-up throughout the United States…’

Again the American gave a startled reaction. ‘You got that sort of detail… names… places…!’

‘Some.’

‘You never told me.’

‘My insurance, David: my very necessary insurance.’

The barman approached inquiringly and both nodded agreement to fresh drinks. They paid separately, as strangers would have done.

Proctor said: ‘Your wife and kids, too?’

Levin did not immediately respond, gazing down into his glass. Then he said: ‘Natalia is still in Moscow: I told you about the operation on her eyes. She’s not due back for a month.’

Proctor paused. Then he said: ‘That’s a bitch.’

‘I think I’ve persuaded Galina but I’m not sure: she still might refuse.’

‘No chance of getting the girl back sooner?’

‘What reason would there be now? It’s logical for her to remain in Russia until we return: to start trying to get her back here would set off every alarm bell in Moscow.’