Read Online A Little White Death by John Lawton - Free Book Online Page A

lugworm, rising upin the Thames marshes. He had not reported the incident. He had given Charlie his chance and with that
chance the corpse of Norman Cobb. He had never asked what he had done with the body. He had never even thought about it until now.
    ‘“It’s time,” said Woodbridge. “You should go now. There are people back in England who would like to see you charged with Cobb’s murder.” Then he
paused, and I think he smiled, and he said, “We can’t have that.” And then he set out the deal. I was to clear off. He didn’t use the word “defect” at any point
– odd that, I thought. I’d be exposed back home, spy, traitor, another Cambridge Commie, but the Cobb thing would be kept quiet. In return I was not to give any of those Burgess and
Maclean-style press conferences. Once in Russia I was to shut up, be a good boy and keep my nose clean. If I didn’t, there’d be recriminations. I could not believe it, Freddie, I tell
you, I was gobsmacked.’
    Charlie seemed to have reached a natural lull. He shook his head from side to side, looked into his empty glass and seemed to be giggling to himself. Troy pushed his almost untouched vodka
across the table to him, and fought his way back to the bar.
    ‘Same again,’ he said.
    Gorki rubbed finger and thumb together.
    ‘Twenty-five kopecks for the soupe au saffron , two roubles fifty for the water.’
    It dawned on Troy that he had no Russian currency. He dug into his coat pocket and came up with a one pound note.
    ‘Wossat?’ Gorki asked.
    ‘A British pound,’ said Troy. ‘Sterling.’
    Gorki trousered it. Troy had no idea of the rate of exchange but knew from the rate of trousering and way he filled the glasses to the brim that he had just made his day.
    ‘You’re English?’ Gorki asked with a hint of astonishment.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘How come you speak Russian with a poncey accent? That’s how the last of the toffs spoke when I was a boy. Just before we put ’em upagainst a wall and shot
’em.’
    ‘Perhaps I come from a long line of ponces,’ said Troy.
    Gorki roared with laughter and Troy gently wove through the crowd, clutching virtual quarter-pints of vodka.
    Charlie sucked down a huge gulpand relished the rush. They stared a while at the soup congealing in the cold. It was, as Charlie had observed, remarkably reminiscent of school dinners, in which
a multitude of sins could be disguised with custard – custard from a packet. Perhaps this was where all the British Army Surplus Custard Powder went. Dumped cheap on the Russian market.
    Troy wiped a clear circle in the wet glass of the window with his fingertips and looked out. A woman stepped quickly back from the arc of light thrown by a streetlamp. It was the first and far
from clear sighting he had had of her, but this must be the unfortunate woman who would be bound for Novaya Zemlya if she lost them. Troy would try to do the decent thing and ensure she kept up
with them. The poor woman must be frozen stiff out there.
    Charlie set down his glass and picked up his tale.
    ‘“How long have I got?” I asked him. “A day? Two?” “Terribly sorry, Charlie,” he says, “it’s less than that. They want you gone now.”
We said goodbye. The bugger even shook my hand. I left the embassy. Slipped old Abu Wagih a fiver to keep an eye out for you, bought a toothbrush at a corner pharmacy and went straight to the
docks. You can always count on there being at least one Russian ship in port. I found the captain. Recited him a little speech I’d learnt phonetically for just such an occasion years ago. He
calls a Party apparatchik – you can always count on there being one of them too – they get on the shortwave to Moscow. Some poor bugger’s turfed out of his berth to make way for
me. Three days later I’m met at Piraeus by the spooks and formally put in the diplomatic bag. Cetera quis nescit? ’
    The vodka showed in his face and in his eyes. A slack-jawed, hang-dog,