The man called kyril, p.6
The Man Called Kyril, page 6
‘Sergeant?’
‘I oppose bail, Sir. We have reason to believe that further offences may be committed and evidence destroyed if bail is granted.’
‘I protest!’
Sculby was on his feet. The stipendary magistrate raised his hand. ‘All in good time. Anything else from the police?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Now, Mr Sculby…’
‘Sir, I would respectfully remind you of the provisions of the Bail Act. My client has no previous convictions. He is prima facie entitled…’
The magistrate listened stoney-faced for five minutes while Sculby said everything he could think of on Loshkevoi’s behalf. Then:
‘The prisoner is remanded in custody for seven days.’
Behind Sculby there was a sudden commotion. Loshkevoi was standing in the dock, his hands grasping the rail in front of him, while two policemen struggled to restrain him. He had hurled himself forward with such violence that his body was bent almost double over the bar of the dock. The subdued man whom Sculby had interviewed in the cells was gone; in his place was a frenzied, white-faced maniac.
‘Get me out!’
Sculby’s jaw dropped. He looked helplessly from the bench to the dock, and back again. ‘Be quiet,’ he hissed. ‘You’ll do yourself no good.’
‘Sculby, I’m telling you…’ Loshkevoi’s voice was a bare croak. ‘Get me out.’
‘Take him down,’ said the magistrate.
Chapter 5
While Sculby was shaving that morning, the government communications centre at Cheltenham finally cracked the runaway code.
They called it the runaway code because transmissions invariably disintegrated into repetitions of the same group of letters, then of one letter, then silence. It was only two weeks old, and for most of that time it had been sitting in the SIS computer, subjected to millions and millions of electronic operations designed to analyse its mysteries.
The print-out of the latest message together with a copy of the key were finally delivered at about eight o’clock on the morning after Loshkevoi’s arrest. Shortly after nine, Telecommunications reported a worldwide transmission emanating from Moscow, destination all embassies and consulates. The monitors sat up. This was unusual. They were using the runaway code. Fingers began to tingle. The message was sent to Computer Operations under a red flag. Less than an hour after the transmission had ceased ‘C’ was being dragged from a meeting to inspect the product.
He arrived back in his office to find it unusually crowded. The head of the Inquisition was there, together with the Director of Planning and the Chief of Staff. Sir Richard Bryant put on his gold-rimmed half-spectacles and read the cable lying on his desk.
REDFIRE + COL IVAN YEVSEEVICH BUCHARENSKY DESERTED MC 03 MARCH + CASENAME KYRIL + BELIEVED SEEKING BRITISH CONTACT VIEW DEFECTION + POSSESSION TOPMOST SECRET DOCUMENTS + POSSESSION IDENTITY SIS CONTACT MC + ALL STEPS NEUTRALISE SHORT SHUTDOWN + SECURE PRIMEMOST + REDFIRE END ++
‘Redfire’ was the most urgent classification a Soviet transmission could carry. Two of the men present in C’s office had never seen one.
‘I don’t understand this,’ said C. ‘What is the meaning of “shutdown”?’
‘Execution,’ explained the head of the Inquisition. ‘They want him alive.’
‘I see.’ Bryant pondered the explanation. ‘Hardly surprising, in the circumstances. What do you have on this… Bucharensky?’
‘The file is coming across from Registry. Meanwhile we have a photograph for you.’
The Director of Planning turned to the IBM console that was built into the side of C’s desk and tapped out some figures, while the Chief of Staff drew the curtains. A picture was flashed on the far wall. They all turned to look at the face of the one the Russians called ‘Kyril’; sad but friendly, the kind of man your child could safely talk to in the park. From the darkness C spoke.
‘Find out the colonel’s movements. Seize him alive by any means possible.’ He paused, so as to give his next words greater emphasis. ‘You are to regard this as a major emergency. I am prepared, if absolutely necessary, to risk a diplomatic incident. But bring him to me, alive, here, in one piece. If you all manage to achieve nothing else for the next twelve months, at least do this and do it soon.’
Chapter 6
Sculby was surprised to find his secretary still in the office. She ought to have gone to lunch long before.
‘You shouldn’t have waited,’ he said.
Betty eyed him over the sheet of paper which she was feeding into her typewriter.
‘I had to. Guess who’s in there.’
Sculby did not need to guess. Royston was the only ‘client’ who regularly came in at lunchtime without an appointment. It upset the routine when he called because the office in Milward Street was small; only Sculby and his secretary worked there, so that one of them always had to be around if a stranger was present. The other seven partners in the firm of Sculby O’Connor & Co worked in plush City offices with a pretty receptionist to protect them from the outside world. Sculby preferred Whitechapel, though. He liked being the boss.
‘What is it this time?’
‘Says it’s the kids. She’s threatening to take them with her and go off with that karate instructor.’
Sculby nodded morosely. The advantage of his secretary was that she pried.
‘Rough morning?’
He nodded again.
‘Want a quickie before you go in?’
‘No. I’ve had a couple.’
‘Yes, I thought so.’
This time Sculby smiled. ‘Shows, does it?’
Betty grinned at him and started to type. Sculby removed his macintosh and hung it on one of the cheap metal hooks provided for the use of clients. The only other garment on the rack was a faded, thin overcoat, the pockets of which overflowed with soiled kid gloves and an old scarf.
‘Don’t wait any longer. See you at two-thirty. Oh, leave me a line through, will you?’
‘Okay then. Bye.’
As Betty picked up her bag and made ready to lock up she heard the beginning of Sculby’s usual opening remarks before the office door closed behind him.
‘Now then, Mr Royston, what can I do for you? Cold day, isn’t it, sorry to hear from my secretary…’
Royston stood up as Sculby entered. The two men shook hands formally.
‘Good of you to see me without an appointment, Mr Sculby.’
‘Not at all, some things won’t wait, will they? If you’ll just hang on a minute…’
Sculby began to shuffle papers across the untidy desk, trying to replace chaos with a semblance of order. When he was tired of that he sat back in his chair and gazed across the mess at Royston, as if expecting him to say something. Sensing this, Royston opened his mouth to speak, but Sculby held up a hand. For a moment they sat there, frozen, silent, until afar off they simultaneously heard the sound of the street door closing and the clink of keys.
Sculby loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt and pushed with his feet against the desk until he was able to rest his legs on the top and slump back in his chair. For a moment he did nothing except raise his hand to his forehead and massage it gently. It helped to ease the muzzy pain which the gin he had drunk earlier had done nothing to alleviate.
‘My God, Michael, I don’t want any more mornings like that one.’
Royston smiled. ‘How’d you get on?’
‘Oddly. It’s all on tape. Which reminds me…’
Sculby stood up and went to fetch the briefcase which he had let drop to the floor on entering the office. ‘Here.’
Royston picked up the tape. ‘Anything to interest me?’
Sculby didn’t answer at once; instead he took a long, cool look at the man sitting opposite him. On the whole he liked Royston. He was an excellent control, one who worked in full sympathy with his agents. But in six years of emphatic co-operation Royston had never learned that there were some questions which couldn’t be answered, at least not in the same language as the questioner used.
‘He’s crazy. And he scares me witless.’
Royston sat back in his chair and thought about that. He knew that what Sculby had just told him might be exaggeration born of nerves. But it might be streetwise instinct. And you didn’t ignore that.
Royston tossed the little cassette in the air, caught it and pocketed it.
‘Tell me,’ he said softly.
Sculby quickly ran through the morning’s events.
‘When I found him in the cells afterwards the surgeon was about to stick a needle in him. I stopped that, of course. It seems he thought as long as he shut up and didn’t incriminate himself he’d get bail. That’s all he cares about, for the moment. When it didn’t happen he couldn’t take it. That’s a hell of a frightened man you’ve got yourself there, Michael. Says he’s innocent, it’s a fit-up. Fair enough. I can’t do any more until I’ve seen the police depositions. I suppose it’s no use asking you what’s going on?’
Royston was silent for a moment.
‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Go to the judge in chambers.’
‘Come again?’
‘Get bail. You appeal against the magistrate’s decision by going to a High Court judge sitting in private, in chambers.’
‘I’m only guessing,’ said Royston, ‘but I think you may find the police don’t oppose on appeal.’ Noting Sculby’s sour look he added quickly, ‘It was nothing to do with me that Loshkevoi didn’t get bail. Five are still clearing up, that’s all.’
‘Five are cunts,’ said Sculby. ‘And you’re another’ hung unspoken in the room between the two men. ‘What happened to my inquest, anyway?’
‘Never mind that for a moment. I’m going to tell you all you need to know, Laurie.’ Royston drew his chair closer to Sculby. ‘And not a word more. That’s for your own protection. Last night, Five found a whole heap of arms and other stuff on Loshkevoi’s premises. We’re leaving them there, pretending we haven’t noticed anything, in the hope he’ll lead us up the line. This handling charge is just to give us something on him for now. You understand? All you’ve got to do is worm your way into his confidence. When I give the word, you’ll be the one to make the pitch. Safety in exchange for hard information, that’ll be the name of the game. And for now that’s all you need to know.’
Royston stood up, and Sculby realised he wasn’t going to learn any more.
‘You’re all right for cash on this one?’
Sculby nodded. ‘Loshkevoi’s loaded.’
‘Then I’ll be off.’
Sculby was overtaken by a burning desire to score over Royston, something, anything…
‘Just one thing, for when you next come, Michael. That coat outside, the suit you’re wearing… they’re all great, no one would think you weren’t a client. But those shoes…’
In spite of himself Royston had to look down.
‘…It’s not that they’re filthy. Quite a lot of my clients have dirty shoes. But you don’t see that much suede on Milward Street, Michael. Hope you don’t mind me mentioning it.’
While Royston was formulating a reply the phone rang.
‘Hello… hold on, please.’
Sculby held his hand over the receiver and frowned across at his companion. ‘For Christ’s sake, who knows you’re here…?’
Royston snatched the instrument from Sculby’s hand.
‘Hello… yes.’
Sculby watched curiously. Royston’s mouth had developed a tic. Suddenly he went very white.
‘He did… what?’
Chapter 7
Kyril stood frozen at the centre of a huge, intricate web. Silence and shadows had isolated him completely from the tangible world outside. Only tiny tingling sensations on the extremities of the strands which he had woven round himself revealed that he was still alive. First his hearing went, worn out with the strain of listening for sounds which did not happen. Now his sight was failing with the short winter twilight. Soon all the systems of his body would shut down, night would come, and he would be dead…
He shook himself angrily. Think.
From his vantage point on the bedside chair he could see the old-new skyline of Athens through the broad tunnel of his bedroom: a maze of aerials and high-tension cables linking the uneven roofs, beyond them a hill topped by stately ruined columns. Earlier in the afternoon the hillside had been the colour of washed sand; now it was ground ginger; soon it would become black, indistinguishable from the surrounding night.
By standing on the chair he was able to look down into Kaningos Square without approaching the window. The two men were still there, talking, every so often directing a swift glance towards the hotel. One of the men operated a souvlaki stall with some pretence to efficiency; Kyril acknowledged that the Athens referentura had improved its standards over the last nine years. In some ways.
The hotel had been unnaturally silent for more than an hour. None of the usual sounds rose from the kitchen, no porter whistled aimlessly as he carted crates of empty, rattling bottles through the hall. They were inside, then. Somewhere in the corridor, in the room next door, on the terrace above him, men were waiting patiently for the next move.
Kyril’s heart beat faster than usual and his palms were sweating, but he could detect no signs of internal panic. The old training still held. It was not as though anything which had happened today was unexpected; Stanov had promised him all this. But Kyril had left it so very late. He had slipped up, once. Nothing in his impassive face or his quiet, controlled movements disclosed that he had been thrust willy-nilly into the most nerve-wracking crisis of his career.
Below him in the dusty square, one of the two men detached himself from the souvlaki stall and began to walk towards the hotel. A three-wheeler van hooted aggressively; the man faltered, advanced again, and was lost from Kyril’s sight.
* * *
It was not the city he remembered. More cracked walls, dirt, empty building-sites. Fewer taxis. No quick ‘deals’ by virtue only of having the language. The smell, that was the same: hot oil, carbon monoxide, red dust, air-cured tobacco, wine. Salt, a dash of the sea. Everything else was changed.
The friendly lorry-driver had dropped him in Omonia Square and watched for a moment of amusement as the ‘German teacher’, doing Greece on the cheap off-season, withstood the first shock of downtown Athens. The hooting, hustling roar of the cars hurtling five abreast down the broad avenues, the vendors, the crowds… the first point of familiarity, of contact: a man dressed in a grey, short-sleeved shirt over black slacks, an attaché case under his arm, stopping to buy Papastratos cigarettes at the kiosk. Kyril’s eyes began to focus. Suddenly he knew where he was.
* * *
He shifted his weight gingerly on the chair and stood still again, listening. Nothing disturbed the eerie quiet of the hotel. With the thumb of his right hand he eased the safety-catch of the Stechkin to ‘off’ while at the same time his forefinger curled round the trigger, testing the pressure. He forgot he had once had to learn that simple movement in far-off days when it still seemed clumsy and unnatural. Only his body and its well-trained muscles remembered.
By turning his head a fraction he could see part of the corridor through the skylight over the door. No awkward shadows. No diminution of light. No sounds. Nothing.
Through the window the far hillside had dissolved into a smoke-laden mist. Nightfall was minutes away. Neon lights flickered outside and a Greek boy shouted before gunning his motorbike and zooming down a side-street. Kyril could hear bazouki music coming from a nearby taverna. Athens was changing into its evening attire. The siesta was over. Soon there would be enough noise in the street to mask any unpleasantness which might occur on the upper floor of a small hotel.
He had selected this hotel from working files on possibly useful ‘stations’, buildings recognised by the KGB as having operational potential but not yet tested by them. The ‘Silenus’ occupied a narrow site in one corner of the triangular ‘square’, with its tiny patch of green in the centre and a mish-mash of cafés spilled on to the pavement. The hotel overlooked a busy intersection with excellent sightlines and ready access to neighbouring apartment-blocks at the rear. In March he was able to obtain a top-storey room at the front without difficulty, paying for a day’s lodging in advance. He allowed himself one hour in the roof-top open bar, already balmy in the pre-spring, drinking Hellas and smoking Benson & Hedges, before lunch and a short rest. Then work.
It was the first chance he had had to think since leaving Moscow. He discovered he quite enjoyed his role – for the moment. It could not last, of course: sooner or later he would find an executioner on his tail, someone determined to see he did not fall into the hands of his own side alive, and then the fun would be over, but for the present he could cope. A magnet, that was what Stanov had called him, and the image appealed to Kyril. Everything depended on him. If he snapped his fingers on the street somebody, somewhere, perhaps thousands of miles away, knew about it and acted accordingly. Kyril liked that. In its way it represented more power than he had ever known.
He wondered whether they had found the diary yet. They should have done. Would it fool anyone? Kyril shook his head, the old doubts returning. Would the traitor fall into the trap of believing that a comparatively junior officer like Ivan Bucharensky had discovered his secret when all others had failed? He might. Kyril appreciated the possibility. If his nerves were already on edge, if he were sufficiently near the brink, then the diary might just instil a doubt… and it would have served its purpose.
After lunch he lay on his bed for an hour, but could not sleep. The weather was mild and overcast. He took a taxi to the intersection of the two main arteries, Leoforas Alexandras and Vassilissis Sofias, then walked slowly south along the latter until he had passed the American embassy. He kept going. After a while Vassilissis Sofias became Vassileos Konstantinou, and he turned right into Stisikhorou, which took him behind the Russian embassy before pointing the way back towards his hotel. One last call, the Odos Stadiou branch of the National Bank of Greece, there to collect his nest-egg from the deposit-box where it had languished for the past nine years, and he was ready to go home. It was a long route but Kyril did not hurry; he wasn’t used to walking and his feet ached. Even at the end, when he realised with a stab of unease that the KGB were ahead of him and on either side, he did not break his stride.
