He reached over and worked the switch. ‘What was Reggie doing in Cairo?’

  ‘They’re doing up an old embassy building. He’s in charge.’ She sighed. ‘ ’Night.’

  ‘Good night.’ He turned to embrace her.

  It was just then that the refrigerator burst into throbbing life, which would certainly have disturbed Molly—even if her husband hadn’t.

  ‘Talk about electric responses,’ she murmured much later.

  Once more Canon Emdon opened the door to his room a fraction and waited. This time there was no sound of voices or movement outside so he edged the door open more, and slowly stuck his head out. The last time he had done this he had only just missed being seen by Mark Treasure who had been on his way to his own room further along. Now the corridor was empty.

  It was not that the canon had failed to provide himself with an excuse for nocturnal sallies. He had complained to the floor concierge after dinner that his lavatory was defective again—and still nothing had been done about it. This gave him the reason for heading in the opposite direction to the concierge’s desk, to the communal lavatory at the very end of the corridor. Since the concierge’s seat was set well back into her alcove he figured she wouldn’t see him in any case—which suited his purpose of not wanting to draw attention to himself unnecessarily.

  Silently, and remarkably swiftly, the dressing-gowned cleric reached the appointed door and very gently turned the handle. Once inside he noiselessly shot the bolt, then again with the kind of agility no one else in the Baroque Circle would have judged typical of him, he stepped up onto the down-turned seat, grasping the pipe from the overhead cistern, first for leverage and then to steady his balance. Squinting through his monocle he observed with satisfaction that the cotton strand was still in place. He had gummed its ends on either side of the cistern’s two parts, near the back. Next, very gingerly, he lifted the cistern cover.

  The flat package was where he had left it, securely taped to the cover. Its contents being irreplaceable it might have seemed profligate in the extreme to be risking them in this way. But Canon Emdon was used to taking calculated risks. His room had definitely been searched this evening whereas this cubicle had evidently not been disturbed for weeks by even cleaning staff, let alone the police. There was no toilet paper, and the pan was in a disgusting condition. People would only use the place as a last resort: every room on the floor had its own ‘private facilities’.

  Without hesitation he replaced the cistern cover and refixed the cotton with rubber gum from the tube in his pocket. Earlier he had considered shifting hiding places but later dismissed the idea.

  He returned to his room as quietly as he had left it, turning the heavy key in the lock with care. He leaned against the door when he was inside, breathing deeply but well pleased with himself.

  As it happened the floor concierge had watched Canon Emdon’s expedition through the nearly undetectable mirror angled against the ceiling opposite her booth. At first she had been only mildly intrigued by the apparent stealth of his movements, and not at all once she had determined where he was going. The mirror gave her a view of the whole corridor. She made a note of the time. He was one of the guests whose movements she had orders to log. She remembered twice reporting the defective lavatory in his room. She had been reporting that lavatory on and off for weeks.

  Chapter Twelve

  The black Volga saloon had covered the short journey from the hotel at speed. The driver was a sallow-faced youth with bad breath, wearing a black peaked cap, and a Party badge in his lapel. He had ignored the two traffic lights set against him, hurtled down Dzerzhinskovo Street with headlights blazing before screeching to a halt outside number six, a late eighteenth-century, classical building close to the corner with Admiralty Place.

  To locals this is perhaps the best known anonymous house in Leningrad—the place where, in December 1917, Feliks Dzerzhinsky set up the very first office of the Soviet secret police.

  None of the three people squashed in the back of the car was impressed with the driver’s dangerous display of arrogance. Even so, two of them, men in dark coats and snap-brimmed trilbies, knew that the extent by which government drivers overlorded other road users was in direct ratio to the importance of the people they were carrying. Of course the woman they were escorting knew this too, and while it was something that increased their self-esteem, it added considerably to her disquiet.

  As the car stopped the man sitting nearest the kerb was already half way out. He marched across the pavement and pressed the bell. The door was opened almost immediately, but not before the woman had been unceremoniously pushed from the vehicle by the other man and was standing ready to be admitted. She was hurried through the opening into the dark panelled hall.

  The man at the desk made a downward sign with his thumb and muttered a number. One of the escorting KGB men who had kept a rough hold on the woman’s arm now thrust her towards a basement staircase, while the other busied himself signing a form at the desk. Neither of the men had uttered a word during the journey.

  She gave a little cry as her foot slipped on the metal edging on one of the steps. The man prevented her from falling with a grip that hurt her shoulder, and a muttered oath about her carelessness: the orders were to deliver her scared but undamaged.

  The bleak room she was put in was large, stone floored, and low ceilinged, with two cast-iron radiators but very little furniture. There was a small wooden table holding a lamp and a telephone, with an upholstered desk chair behind. Arranged ten feet in front of the table was a stark deal chair on which her escort had motioned the woman to sit before he left.

  There were two ceiling lights but they were not switched on—only the desk lamp was lit. This was why Colonel Grinyev surprised her when he stepped out of the shadows at the back of the room: she had thought she was alone when the door had slammed.

  ‘They got you here safely, Comrade Sinitseva?’ Now he walked quickly to the desk. ‘No, don’t get up. Would you like to take off your coat? Your nice leather coat?’

  ‘No thank you, I’m cold.’ The last words were hardly audible. She swallowed, trying to dispel the fear. He had been considerate earlier.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said I’m cold, Comrade Colonel,’ she repeated but still with a falter in her voice.

  ‘I see. I find it quite warm in here. You’re not frightened, are you? Nothing to be frightened about.’ The look seemed genuinely solicitous. ‘We’re only here because they were getting very testy at the Astoria. Did you notice? Keeping people up with our being there, and so on. No, I thought it better to continue our little chat in private. And this place being so near. It’s not where I have my office. But they never close here.’ He sat in the chair and leaned forward with his forearms on the table, his gaze fixed on his clenched hands.

  ‘It’s … it’s very late, Comrade Colonel. If we could continue tomorrow, I …’

  ‘Because you have a long drive home across the city. In your nice little Zhiguli. To your nice little three-roomed apartment on Marshala Zhukova Prospect.’

  ‘It’s my husband’s car, Comrade. I borrow it only if I’m going to be late.’ She drew in her breath, then added: ‘Our apartment has two rooms.’

  ‘Ah, that’s right, of course. No children. So no problems about baby sitters. But you wouldn’t have had tonight in any case because your husband isn’t with you. He’s at home I expect?’ He looked up briefly.

  She nodded. ‘It’s a busy time for him. At the Institute …’

  ‘Where he lectures. And he doesn’t care for opera, perhaps? Strange. Most Lithuanians like opera. Very cultured people.’

  ‘He’s only half Lithuanian. Only his mother …’ She faltered, confused, then blurted on nervously: ‘He likes opera, but not as much as me. And … and there was only one spare ticket tonight.’

  ‘So he made the sacrifice. And lent you his car so you wouldn’t be bothered by the drunks on the Metro.’ Grinyev gave a sharp cough. ‘Excuse me, Comrade Sinitseva. Or, I tell you what, why don’t I call you Valya? Hm? Is that what your husband calls you?’ He looked up again, taking in her nod of assent.

  She could almost feel as well as watch his gaze. Instead of returning to a study of his hands it ran down her figure, lingering on her legs.

  ‘When you go abroad you can go together of course,’ he continued. ‘You’ve both been abroad a lot. To Warsaw, Leipzig, Belgrade, London, Paris?’

  ‘Not together to London or Paris. To the other places, yes. I’ve been to London. For two weeks. For Intourist. My husband was in Paris and New York for conferences. At the universities. The Sorbonne and Columbia. He’s a linguist. An assistant professor.’ She knew she was rushing her words—saying too much. She recrossed her legs, pulling the bottom of her coat across her knees and wishing she was wearing a longer, looser skirt—and boots, not the court shoes she had on: she’d left her boots in the car.

  Grinyev watched the movements. ‘And you haven’t yet been able to go with him. Not to the West. Not together. Couldn’t get away at the same time. Is that it?’

  Since he knew so much about her of course she knew he had the answer to the question already. ‘We don’t have double clearance … Not yet,’ she finished feebly.

  He looked puzzled, then his expression relaxed into an understanding smile. ‘So you’ve applied …?’

  ‘Often, Comrade Colonel,’ she’d interrupted on impulse, and meaning to say they’d been told that the next time … But he must know it. So all she’d done was stupidly underline how many times they’d been turned down already.

  ‘Often? The Foreign Ministry being overcautious, would you say? I mean because of the Lithuanian connection? Sorry, halfconnection. The Ministry can be very stupid. Because someone’s half Lithuanian doesn’t prove he’s plotting revolution. Or illegal secession from the USSR. Not unless there’s some kind of proof.’ He shrugged. ‘After all there are two-and-a-half million Lithuanians. They’re not all potential traitors.’

  ‘My husband is a Party member.’

  ‘There you are. Exactly. Total proof of his loyalty. His suitability to hold a teaching post. How would he have got the job otherwise? So how could anyone think he belongs to a subversive organisation?’

  ‘I’m sure our double visa hasn’t been held up because anyone thought he was unreliable, Comrade Colonel.’ For the first time there was a note of confidence coming back to her voice.

  ‘Isn’t that what I’m saying to you, Valya? He’s been abroad often, after all. Without you, of course.’ He gave a dismissive grunt. ‘It wasn’t as if it was he who threw the acid at the Rembrandt. In the State Hermitage. The man who said he belonged to the Lithuanian Liberation Movement. You remember that?’

  ‘Yes, Comrade Colonel. The painting was Rembrandt’s Danae. A masterpiece. The action was an outrage. My husband and I were shocked. The man must have been mad.’

  ‘Ah, I’d forgotten you’d know all about such things. I know the work slightly myself. Nude princess reclining on a couch and gesturing invitingly to Zeus who’s disguised as a shower of gold. Not very convincingly disguised, but those mythological subjects are often a bit bizarre.’ Grinyev was studying the woman before him as he continued: ‘Yes, Princess Danae. Small, rounded, voluptuous figure. Beautiful.’ He paused. ‘It was a foolish thing to harm her. Pointless too. More sensible to have stolen her. Sold her for millions of dollars to help the Lithuanian Liberation Movement. Don’t you think so, Valya?’

  ‘Only for such evil people, Comrade Colonel. Except it would be difficult to steal such a big painting, perhaps.’

  ‘But not a smaller one, you think?’ he came back swiftly. ‘The principle is the same, though. Open vandalism leads to martyrdom and imprisonment. Steal a picture on the quiet and you can make a fortune. A much more mature way to help a cause. In this case an evil cause, as you imply. But perhaps the revolting Lithuanians are growing up. Have you heard of any pictures being stolen recently?’

  ‘No, Comrade.’

  ‘Just so. And you and your husband have applied to join a cruise ship this summer? To go round the Baltic and also to Britain and Holland?’

  She knew that question would come. ‘For a working vacation. We hope to be accepted on board as lecturers.’

  ‘But no permission yet. I wonder what’s holding it up? Perhaps one of you’ll be allowed to go? A bigger sacrifice for the other than the one your husband made tonight. Or you could go one at a time? Not a bit the same, of course. Not the same opportunity … to get away … together.’ He was watching her very intently as suddenly he demanded: ‘Valya, where is your husband tonight?’

  She started. ‘He’s at home, at least …’

  ‘He’s not at home, Valya. So where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he’s gone to see his mother. She lives close.’ Her fingernails dug into her palms as she steeled herself to stay calm.

  ‘He’s visiting his mother at one-thirty in the morning? And where were you at four-thirty this afternoon?’

  ‘At four-thirty?’

  ‘Precisely. Quickly, where were you?’

  ‘I was …’ She drew in her breath in a sort of backward sob. ‘I was at the Astoria. At the Intourist desk. Arranging the opera tickets for the group.’

  ‘You’re lying to me, Valya. Why? At four-thirty you were on the third floor of the hotel. Who were you with?’

  ‘I’d forgotten. After I’d arranged the tickets I went up to deliver …’

  ‘WHO WERE YOU WITH?’ He roared the words, slamming the table with his fist.

  ‘The people called Tate. A mother and son.’

  ‘Who had separate rooms. You were in his room not hers. What were you doing there?’

  ‘I’ve told you, Comrade Colonel, I went to give them their opera tickets. They’d come back from the Hermitage ahead of the others.’ She was leaning forward in the chair, conscious she was gabbling her words again. ‘Mrs Tate was tired. They’d seen me in the lobby and asked about the tickets. I promised to take them up. I wasn’t sure who was in which room. I’d meant to go to hers.’

  ‘You’re in the habit of going to the rooms of male tourists?’

  ‘Never, Comrade Colonel.’ She felt the blush rising in her face.

  ‘Never? Last November the deputy director of a Washington museum called …’

  ‘That was different, Comrade Colonel,’ she broke in with the protest. ‘That time I was ordered.’

  ‘And two years before that? A British Member of Parliament staying at the Moskva hotel? That was on orders too?’

  ‘Yes. That too. Nothing happened. I mean I was told to be especially nice to them. To make lasting contacts. Cultural contacts. Over drinks. That’s all.’

  ‘Drinks in their rooms. How much do you earn, Valya?’

  ‘A hundred and eighty roubles a month, Comrade Colonel.’

  ‘And your husband?’ he demanded quickly. ‘Two hundred and twenty roubles a month.’

  ‘And you have a car, and a country dacha.’

  ‘It’s a very small dacha, Comrade Colonel.’ She was desperately searching for a handkerchief in her bag.

  ‘But it has to be paid for. Like the elegant clothes you wear. Does your husband know about your being especially nice to visitors? In their rooms?’

  ‘Yes. He knows. Also that it’s harmless. That in such cases it’s always my duty.’

  ‘Your trade?’ he put in roughly. ‘And he doesn’t mind because, he has his own … arrangements? Like tonight. Another woman, perhaps? Or a man? Ah, would that explain why you have no children? That your husband prefers …?’ He raised his eyebrows but didn’t complete the sentence. ‘And you were going back to the Astoria, after the opera tonight? To join Mr Tate in his lonely room?’

  ‘That’s not true, Comrade Colonel.’

  ‘I see. After all, you were there in the afternoon.’

  ‘Only for a few minutes. And my husband is normal. He’s not unfaithful, and neither am I.’ Now the tears she’d been holding back had begun coursing down her cheeks.

  ‘So what did Mr Tate give you when you were with him so briefly? In exchange for these opera tickets, and whatever else you provided? Clothes was it? He’s a smart dresser, your Mr Reginald Tate. He’d have plenty of saleable clothes.’

  ‘He gave me nothing. Nothing except six roubles for the tickets.’

  ‘So he gave you money? You didn’t tell me. Pounds in exchange for roubles?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. Nothing except six roubles.’ She sobbed, shaking her head. ‘And I gave him nothing except the tickets.’

  ‘Not even a painting? Just a small painting?’

  ‘What painting? I know nothing about a painting.’

  ‘Which room are the Blintons in?’ He stabbed out the words.

  ‘Number … I don’t know. They’re all on that floor.’

  ‘I’m told the Blintons are always leaving their door unlocked. It was open when you passed at four-thirty and again when you left twelve minutes later. When you were just delivering those tickets to Mr Tate. Or did you spend some of the time in the Blintons’ room? I understand they weren’t back till later. Did you see Mr Blinton’s knife on the dressing table? Did you pick it up? Did you take it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She buried her head in her hands and was sobbing uncontrollably.

  ‘Or did your friend Tate take the knife and give it to you at the opera? Where you’d arranged to meet? At the ceremonial staircase? In the interval? And do you have a pair of cotton gloves in your bag right now? ANSWER ME!’ he roared.

  Slowly she dropped her trembling hands. One of her long false eyelashes had come away on her palm. She stared at it without it seeming to register. Her cheeks were blotched with mascara and her eyes were red with the weeping. She took a deep breath, still staring downwards, one hand clasping her black evening bag.

  ‘Comrade Colonel, I’m a loyal Party member,’ she uttered in a just audible and broken whisper. ‘I love my country. My work. My husband. I have done nothing dishonest …’ She gasped. He had come round the table and was standing over her.

 

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