Vorovskovo. There, in a small, dark room at the end of a long corridor, Swift perched on the end of a stiff-backed wooden chair, nervously smoking a cigarette. The haughty confidence he had put on display before Stalin was now replaced by scowling agitation.
From the shadows came the sound of a deep breath being drawn in. Then a man leaned forward, his face suddenly illuminated by the glow of a glass-hooded lamp which stood upon the desk between them. He had an oval face, yellowish teeth and neatly combed hair shellacked on to his scalp with lavender-smelling pomade. His name was Oswald Hansard and although the brass plaque on his door had him listed as the sub-director of the Royal Agricultural Trade Commission, he was in fact the Moscow station chief of British Intelligence. ‘So you think that Pekkala will help us?’ he asked.
Swift sipped at his cigarette and then exhaled in two grey jets through his chapped nostrils. ‘I think he will follow his conscience, whatever Stalin has to say about it.’
‘I’m sure a good number of men and women in this country have followed their conscience, and I dare say it bought them a ticket to Siberia, if they even made it that far.’
‘It’s different with Pekkala,’ remarked Swift. ‘Stalin seems to take a perverse pleasure in being stood up to by this Finn. Even though he has the power to make Pekkala disappear from the face of the earth with nothing so much as a phone call to Lubyanka, he won’t do it.’
‘And why is that, do you suppose?’
‘If I had to guess, I’d say it is because he knows Pekkala doesn’t care. He’s not afraid and there’s nothing Stalin can do about it. If you want my opinion, the only thing keeping Pekkala alive is the very fact that he has placed less value on his life than on his work.’
‘And that work is what they have in common,’ added Hansard.
‘The only thing, I’d say, but it’s enough.’
‘So he will help us?’ Hansard asked again.
‘I think he might,’ answered Swift, ‘for the sake of the woman.’
Hansard sat back heavily, vanishing again into the shadows. ‘But it’s been years since he last set eyes upon her. Surely, he has moved on by now. Any practical person would have done so.’
Swift laughed quietly.
‘Did I say something funny?’ snapped the station chief.
‘Well, yes sir, I think you did. Has there never been someone you loved, from whom you were kept apart by fate and circumstance?’
Hansard paused, sucking at his yellow teeth. ‘In practical terms . . .’
‘And that’s where you really are being funny, sir,’ interrupted Professor Swift.
‘Well, I’m glad to have kept you so amused,’ growled Hansard.
‘What I mean, sir, is that practicality has nothing to do with this. Neither has time itself. Once a love like that has been kindled, nothing can extinguish it. It remains suspended, like an insect trapped in amber. Time cannot alter it. Words cannot undo it.’
Hansard sighed and rose up from his chair. He walked out into the middle of the room. Although he had on a grey suit, and a black and white checked tie, he wore no socks or shoes and his pale feet glowed with a sickly pallor. ‘Highly impractical,’ he muttered.
‘As you say, sir,’ answered Swift, stubbing out his cigarette in a peach-coloured onyx ashtray on the desk, ‘but the world would be a poorer place without people who believed in such things. And besides, in this case, you will admit, it serves our purpose well.’
He gave an exasperated sigh.
The station chief glanced up. ‘Something on your mind, Swift?’
‘Actually, sir, there is. Pekkala asked me how this woman ended up working for us.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I guessed and said she volunteered. The fact is I have no idea.’
‘Nevertheless,’ replied Hansard, ‘you stumbled into the truth.’
‘But what is her story, sir?’
‘I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you now,’ said Hansard. ‘She was first approached by
From the shadows came the sound of a deep breath being drawn in. Then a man leaned forward, his face suddenly illuminated by the glow of a glass-hooded lamp which stood upon the desk between them. He had an oval face, yellowish teeth and neatly combed hair shellacked on to his scalp with lavender-smelling pomade. His name was Oswald Hansard and although the brass plaque on his door had him listed as the sub-director of the Royal Agricultural Trade Commission, he was in fact the Moscow station chief of British Intelligence. ‘So you think that Pekkala will help us?’ he asked.
Swift sipped at his cigarette and then exhaled in two grey jets through his chapped nostrils. ‘I think he will follow his conscience, whatever Stalin has to say about it.’
‘I’m sure a good number of men and women in this country have followed their conscience, and I dare say it bought them a ticket to Siberia, if they even made it that far.’
‘It’s different with Pekkala,’ remarked Swift. ‘Stalin seems to take a perverse pleasure in being stood up to by this Finn. Even though he has the power to make Pekkala disappear from the face of the earth with nothing so much as a phone call to Lubyanka, he won’t do it.’
‘And why is that, do you suppose?’
‘If I had to guess, I’d say it is because he knows Pekkala doesn’t care. He’s not afraid and there’s nothing Stalin can do about it. If you want my opinion, the only thing keeping Pekkala alive is the very fact that he has placed less value on his life than on his work.’
‘And that work is what they have in common,’ added Hansard.
‘The only thing, I’d say, but it’s enough.’
‘So he will help us?’ Hansard asked again.
‘I think he might,’ answered Swift, ‘for the sake of the woman.’
Hansard sat back heavily, vanishing again into the shadows. ‘But it’s been years since he last set eyes upon her. Surely, he has moved on by now. Any practical person would have done so.’
Swift laughed quietly.
‘Did I say something funny?’ snapped the station chief.
‘Well, yes sir, I think you did. Has there never been someone you loved, from whom you were kept apart by fate and circumstance?’
Hansard paused, sucking at his yellow teeth. ‘In practical terms . . .’
‘And that’s where you really are being funny, sir,’ interrupted Professor Swift.
‘Well, I’m glad to have kept you so amused,’ growled Hansard.
‘What I mean, sir, is that practicality has nothing to do with this. Neither has time itself. Once a love like that has been kindled, nothing can extinguish it. It remains suspended, like an insect trapped in amber. Time cannot alter it. Words cannot undo it.’
Hansard sighed and rose up from his chair. He walked out into the middle of the room. Although he had on a grey suit, and a black and white checked tie, he wore no socks or shoes and his pale feet glowed with a sickly pallor. ‘Highly impractical,’ he muttered.
‘As you say, sir,’ answered Swift, stubbing out his cigarette in a peach-coloured onyx ashtray on the desk, ‘but the world would be a poorer place without people who believed in such things. And besides, in this case, you will admit, it serves our purpose well.’
He gave an exasperated sigh.
The station chief glanced up. ‘Something on your mind, Swift?’
‘Actually, sir, there is. Pekkala asked me how this woman ended up working for us.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I guessed and said she volunteered. The fact is I have no idea.’
‘Nevertheless,’ replied Hansard, ‘you stumbled into the truth.’
‘But what is her story, sir?’
‘I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you now,’ said Hansard. ‘She was first approached by
Similar Books
