Derek Lambert - The Red Dove

Vlasov offered him a cigarette, lit it with a table-lighter shaped like the first sputnik and said: ‘So, what about Massey?’

‘An interesting case,’ Vlasov said smoothly, exhaling smoke.

So, he had managed to read the report. But had he given himself time to make further inquiries? It must have been an agonising decision: everyone knew that Nicolay Vlasov was fanatical about punctuality.

Vlasov attacked. ‘Did Intourist report the booking immediately?’

‘That, Comrade Chairman, is surely the responsibility of the First Chief Directorate.’

‘A joint responsibility, comrade. The booking was made abroad but as Massey was flying into the Soviet Union, he was entering your territory.’

‘Well,’ Peslyak said, composure unruffled, ‘you can see that we have it in hand.’

‘A chance reference in a routine report by some chit of a girl. Is that what you call having it in hand?’

‘We are following it up. Surely you don’t want to be bothered in the digests with every lead we encounter?’

True. If he did the digests would become tomes. But he had picked up this lead and he was a young man again scenting a quarry. Big game?

‘What I do want,’ Vlasov snapped, ‘is selectivity in the digests. See to it in future.’

Peslyak’s eyes flickered, his bulky body straightened a little. ‘Very well, but—’

‘I want Grade 1 surveillance mounted on Massey.’

‘If I may ask—’

‘I want the surveillance taken away from your Seventh Department and handed over to Department V of the First Chief Directorate.’

Peslyak’s eyes slitted. ‘Is that really necessary? My men are perfectly capable.’

‘Department V,’ Vlasov repeated. He had once worked for Department V, formerly known as Line F; its true title was the Executive Action Department and it was responsible for foreign sabotage and assassinations, mokrie dela, wet jobs. Not that Massey was necessarily a mokrie dela, it was merely that Department V possessed the most competent agents, with the bonus that Peslyak, who had been gunning for Vlasov since the 1980 fiasco, was being humiliated. ‘I’ll make the necessary arrangements with Moroz,’ the head of the First Chief Directorate.

‘This Massey,’ Peslyak said thoughtfully, ‘must be very important.’

Vlasov ignored him. ‘This girl Natasha Uskova – do her duties extend beyond routine observation?’

‘You mean is she a swallow?’ Peslyak rubbed his fleshy nose as though trying to reshape it. ‘She has slept with visitors from the West, yes. The photographs were excellent…’

‘Then tell her to make an approach to Massey. He might be weak in such matters. Most men are vulnerable in some area of sexuality, even ambassadors.’

Peslyak said abruptly: ‘I don’t understand.’

Vlasov picked up a red telephone and said: ‘Get me Moroz.’ Within seconds Moroz was on the line, a lesson in response to Peslyak. He told Moroz to find the best agent in Department V and alert him to stand by for a home-based operation.

Moroz agreed without question. Another lesson.

Vlasov hung up and said to Peslyak: ‘Thank you for coming, that will be all.’

‘I think I have a right to know what this is all about,’ Peslyak said stiffly, ‘as it comes within my jurisdiction.’

‘It’s all about instinct,’ Vlasov said softly. And survival, he thought.

Massey’s morning was interesting but he was preoccupied with what he had to do later.

After breakfast the package deal party wandered around the lobby of the Ukraina; a tour in itself, Massey thought. The queues of guests were still there, like refugees waiting for a last boat; crowds swarmed round the kiosks buying foreign Communist newspapers such as the British Morning Star and picture postcards; children played among groups of tourists; from time to time the main door opened admitting a shaft of white light.

At 10 a.m. Natasha Uskova rounded them up and announced brightly: ‘And now we’re going to see Moscow’s wonderful subway system.’

‘Whoopee,’ said the man who had translated Great Patriotic War the previous night. He was balding with a creased face and he smoked cigars; he had been to Moscow before and he wasn’t going to let anyone forget it.

Ignoring him, Natasha Uskova said: ‘I hope you are all dressed up warmly. Not that we shall be in the cold very much. You will find that in winter Moscow is the warmest place on earth – indoors.’

‘I know what she means,’ the man with the cigar said.

She led them outside. The minibus was waiting, pumping out clouds of white exhaust. The snow was ankle deep, still falling. They drove over the Moskva River in the direction of the Kremlin.

The man with the cigar pointed at Tchaikovsky Street. ‘Get in any trouble,’ he said, ‘and that’s where you go, the little old United States Embassy.’

Natasha Uskova said: ‘You speak from experience, Mr Belton?’

The rest of the party laughed. Massey warmed to the girl. She was black-haired, wearing sensible clothes and a fur-hat that, with the collar of her coat, framed her face and softened it. You could only guess at her figure beneath the clothes; Massey guessed it was generous, like Rosa’s.

The memory of Rosa saddened him. Her quiet acceptance when he had departed had been more of a recrimination than tears.

‘Will you be back?’ she had said. Not ‘When will you be back?’ As if she knew.

He had kissed her and boarded the airplane at Corpus Christi and, when he had arrived at Washington, told Reynolds to make available to her 100,000 dollars, but to invest it and pay it to her in monthly cheques because Rosa would have been frightened by such a sum of money.

Reynolds had agreed without question.

‘Your Mr Belton is a pain in the ass.’ Natasha Uskova sat down beside him.

‘That’s a very American expression.’

‘I worked in the Aeroflot offices on Fifth Avenue in New York before joining Intourist.’

‘You mustn’t be too hard on Mr Belton. He’s had a hard life making a few bucks. This is probably the first time he’s felt important.’

‘Now you make me feel ashamed.’

‘Control him,’ Massey said, ‘for all our sakes, but don’t ride him.’ He nodded across the gangway. ‘Who’s the new guy?’

‘He’s Herr Brasack from East Berlin. He’s a journalist writing a series of articles for the East German Press.’

Brasack was staring through the falling snow. He was a man of medium height with sandy hair and a dab of a moustache to match; he wore a brown leather overcoat and brown gloves; in the hotel he had been eagerly affable and Massey suspected that he was a bore.

The minibus stopped outside a subway station near another building that, like the Ukraina, looked like a wedding cake. ‘Stalinesque Gothic,’ Natasha Uskova whispered to Massey. ‘There are seven of them. Even now we don’t know whether to admire them or ridicule them.’

As they hurried into the warmth of the subway Massey wondered why he was being singled out for such confidences.

The station was beautiful, like an underground church except that, instead of a crucifix, the centrepiece was a bronze sculpture of muscular Soviet workers. It was as clean as a hospital ward and, when Belton tossed his cigar butt on the floor, Natasha Uskova pointed accusingly at it; grinning awkwardly, he picked it up.

Remembering the New York subway, Massey was impressed. In this area, at least, Communism had a lot going for it.

A train pulled into the station; Natasha Uskova took his arm to jerk him from his daydream; a small shock passed between them. She smiled. ‘That often happens in the winter. It’s static electricity.’