Goodbye to an Old Friend Read online

  ‘Anne,’ said Anita, easily, ‘this is Adrian.’

  She stayed smiling and reached out. Hesitatingly he took her hand. The shake was soft and womanlike.

  ‘She won’t bite you, Adrian,’ said Anita. ‘We don’t all wear trousers and smoke pipes, you know.’

  ‘Don’t, Anita,’ rebuked Anne Sinclair.

  ‘Hello,’ said Adrian, remaining standing. He was aware of the feeling between the two women. He felt like a Peeping Tom.

  ‘Oh, do sit down,’ she said. ‘Has Anita offered you a drink? Some brandy? Or some wine perhaps? We’ve got some in the fridge.’

  At Eton Adrian had twice a year gone to tea in his housemaster’s study and been served slightly burned scones and weak tea by the man’s wife.

  She had recognized his shyness and favoured him just slightly above the other boys, giving him, just once every six months, thirty minutes of favoured attention, listening to him intently, as if what he said mattered, drawing opinions from him and then deferring to them and Adrian had thought she was the most wonderful woman in the world. He found himself comparing her to the blonde woman before him.

  ‘Yes … no,’ said Adrian, blushing under the attention. ‘She’s offered me a drink, but I refused …’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Adrian doesn’t want to put us to any inconvenience, not even one duty glass,’ said Anita, the jeer quite clear.

  ‘Do stop it, Anita,’ said Anne. She turned to Adrian. ‘Did you have any difficulty finding the flat?’ she said, pleasantly. ‘We gave a housewarming the other night and some people took hours to get here.’

  Just like the housemaster’s tea party. A cosy room, pleasant, easily handled small talk, like a friendly game of table tennis where you lob the ball over the net towards the other person’s bat.

  ‘No, not really. I thought it was quite easy,’ said Adrian. They’d probably discuss the weather and that year’s holiday, he thought. He controlled a snigger at the stupidity of it, the social conversation with his wife’s lover. Unasked, Anita poured a brandy and took it to the other girl, who accepted it without thanks, acknowledging a well established ritual. For a few seconds they looked at one another and Adrian felt an interloper again.

  ‘We’re going to have some supper in a while,’ said Anne, turning back to him. ‘Why don’t you stay?’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind …’ began Adrian, but his wife cut in. ‘But he can’t,’ said Anita. ‘He’s already eaten and couldn’t manage another thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Adrian, reminded. ‘I’ve already eaten. And I have a couple of things to do tonight.’

  His stomach yawned at the thought of food.

  Anita is enjoying my discomfort, thought Adrian, suddenly. The bitch is gloating, happy at her odd security, enjoying my crumpled suit and filthy shirt and knowing I haven’t eaten. She probably even guesses there weren’t any eggs for breakfast.

  ‘You’re staring at me,’ grinned Anne and if he had been unaware of the circumstances, Adrian would have said she was flirting with him.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said, flushing and regretting it. Anita suddenly became aware of the exchange and Adrian saw her go white. He wondered if Anne were playing some odd sort of love game.

  Anita began to talk, trying to reduce her husband before the other woman.

  ‘Adrian at his best,’ she said, ‘apologizing.’ Anne said nothing, merely holding up an empty glass which Anita hurriedly took from her and refilled. Adrian realized that despite her apparent femininity, Anne was the dominant character. Oddly, he felt regret.

  ‘I think I’d better get going,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, really,’ said Anne. ‘Surely you can stay on a little longer? Why not change your mind and have a meal?’

  ‘He has to go,’ said Anita, the jealousy obvious.

  To her Adrian said, ‘You’ll let me have the address of a solicitor?’

  It occurred to him that it would have been easier for them to arrange the whole thing by letter. It had been Anita who had insisted on the meeting and he suddenly realized she had purposely schemed his humiliation with Anne, creating the comparison between two rivals.

  ‘Yes,’ said Anita. ‘I’ll give you a solicitor’s name.’

  ‘You have my new number, in case you want to call me,’ said Adrian, still feeling sympathy.

  His wife nodded.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said, to Anne. She smiled and walked with him to the door.

  ‘Maybe I’ll see you again.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, automatically.

  Downstairs the lift gave its tiny bump and Adrian emerged into the lobby. The porter grinned. ‘Not staying long,’ he said, as if he knew.

  Adrian started to ignore him, and then stopped. ‘That the Military Medal?’ he asked. The porter smiled, preparing himself for the rehearsed speech. Adrian cut him off. ‘It’s on upside down,’ he said. It wasn’t a great victory, but Adrian walked out into the night nursing a small feeling of contentment.

  ‘I’ve had an idea,’ said Minevsky. Actually it had occurred to him several days before, but he had waited, assessing the moment of maximum impact.

  ‘What?’ asked Kaganov.

  ‘Why don’t we expel a British diplomat? We can create a situation around one of the embassy staff. London is sure to retaliate and expel one of our men. It will keep everything boiling.’

  ‘Good idea,’ conceded Heirar, reluctantly. ‘Who’ll it be?’

  Minevsky shrugged. ‘Doesn’t really matter. I suppose the military attaché is the most obvious choice.’

  ‘All right,’ said Kaganov. ‘Let’s use the military attaché.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ asked Minevsky, not really wanting to know, but anxious to extend the recording. The other two men stared at him, curiously. ‘Haven’t the slightest idea,’ said Kaganov. ‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’

  ‘No,’ agreed Minevsky. ‘Of course not.’

  Chapter Five

  It was planned for surprise effect, the second interview coming as a complete contrast to the first, concentrating completely upon technicalities and conducted in a formal, rigid pattern, calculated to shatter any rehearsed reaction.

  A defector was never accepted as genuine until at least six debriefing sessions.

  Pavel had expected to continue the bickering of the previous day, but Adrian curtailed him brusquely. He spoke almost as if they had never met, sitting with the clipboard of questions before him, isolating himself completely from any dissension, a cipher almost.

  ‘I have a list of questions,’ he began. ‘I’m sorry, but I am not a technical man, so I will have to refer to these notes. I won’t, of course, be annotating your answers …’

  ‘… Because of the recorders …’ He was still laughing. Adrian ignored the invitation.

  ‘How many Soyuz missions have there been?’

  ‘But you must know that. They have all been made public. Surely you don’t think we’ve put some up without announcement? I thought your monitoring stations were better than that.’

  ‘How many Soyuz missions have there been?’ repeated Adrian, doggedly.

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘Tell me about your suitings.’

  ‘Very similar to the American Apollo EMP-A-7lbs for intravehicular operations. The suit design for extravehicular activity is almost identical to the EV-A-7lbs of the American Apollo 15 mission, but with a back-pack lighter by about two pounds.’

  It wasn’t on the form before him, but Adrian knew the questions would be asked, so he said, ‘You seem well informed of the Apollo equipment. How?’ Pavel lounged in one of the leather armchairs, completely at ease.

  ‘America is such an open society,’ he mocked. ‘Did you know that Apollo 15 had a 157-page press kit, as well as technical releases to trade press and experts?’

  ‘No,’ said Adrian.

  ‘Any enterprising diplomat in Washington can work full time ferrying information back which the Americans
seem only too anxious for everyone to know.’

  Adrian pictured the reaction that remark would cause among the C.I.A. when they got a recording. ‘What space suit changes were made following the Soyuz disaster?’

  Pavel laughed. ‘We announced that, too. Our cosmonauts no longer re-enter the atmosphere after a mission without suits, in case of minuscule oxygen leaks.’

  Adrian flicked a page and Pavel said, ‘Why this change of attitude?’

  Adrian didn’t answer.

  ‘Complaints about the way yesterday’s interview went?’ he persevered with uncanny accuracy.

  ‘I’d like to talk about the equipment on moon probes,’ said Adrian.

  ‘Wasn’t anybody distressed at our obvious antipathy?’

  Pavel was over-stressing the mockery. Did that show over-concern?

  ‘Are any more moon probes planned?’

  Pavel shrugged, apparently accepting the mechanical responses of his interrogator.

  ‘Three,’ he answered. ‘None will be manned. We plan a much bigger version of the American mooncar and much more sophisticated than our first one. It will be fitted with more automatic rock collecting and measuring devices.’

  ‘How much bigger?’

  ‘The American L.V.R. was small, only ten feet two inches long, with a 7·5-foot wheelbase powered over individual wheels with a quarter-horsepower electric motor. Ours will be at least twenty feet over a comparable wheelbase and have a midwheel section, giving total wheeling of twelve feet. It will have a payload capability of 2,670 pounds. The American only had 1,080 pounds, including astronauts.’

  ‘Electrically powered?’

  Pavel shook his head. ‘Solar systemed, with an earth-operated electrical back-up system.’

  ‘How are you going to boost a thing that size into orbit?’

  Pavel laughed again. ‘Typical earthbound question,’ he jeered. ‘Who says you’ve got to construct it on the ground?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning the rover vehicle, which will have a cabin rather like a caravan in which a man could operate without any protection whatsoever, will leave earth on a rocket much smaller than that of the Americans. It’ll be assembled in space in an orbiting laboratory.’

  Adrian paused. Everything Bennovitch had said was confirmed. But there was nothing new. ‘What else will be the function of the lunar caravan?’

  ‘Solar wind composition experiments, to determine the isoptric makeup of inert gases in the wind, and it will also include a laser retro-reflector to act as a passive target for earth-based lasers for calculation over a long period.’

  ‘The Americans have organized similar experiments during the Apollo series. Isn’t it wasteful duplicating exchange-material tests?’

  ‘It’s only surface duplication,’ said Pavel. ‘The adaptation of the results could differ.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Adrian, departing from the form again.

  ‘The Americans are still a long way from establishing a space platform. Don’t always look to the end of the experiment for its ultimate worth. The success of a moon rover – whether it functions, the incidence of errors – will indicate whether or not we can successfully create something in space.’

  A hint? Adrian continued the line that Pavel had opened. ‘Is there a Russian plan to establish a space platform for military purposes?’

  Pavel laughed, that jeering sound again, and Adrian felt he had been drawn too far, tricked into asking a stupid question.

  ‘Why do you have to begin every question with the supposition that Russia is the villain, pursuing the virginity of the rest of the world?’

  ‘That’s an exaggeration. I wouldn’t have expected that from a scientific mind,’ countered Adrian. ‘It’s an obvious question, when we talk of space platforms capable of building lunar caravans.’

  ‘What about forecasting?’ asked Pavel, carelessly.

  ‘Unnecessary,’ countered Adrian again, quickly. ‘All necessary weather information can be obtained from unmanned satellites.’

  ‘True,’ conceded Pavel. ‘What about astrological research?’

  ‘Unnecessary again,’ said Adrian. ‘You can conduct those probes as well from unmanned stations.’

  ‘I’ve got you away from the listed questions,’ said Pavel and laughed, an excited sound, like a trainer who had encouraged a seal to balance a ball.

  Adrian flushed, bending back to the clipboard. ‘Let’s talk about space photography,’ he said.

  ‘As you wish,’ said Pavel, condescendingly. Adrian jerked up. The other man had replied in Russian.

  ‘As you wish,’ responded Adrian, lapsing easily into the same language. He supposed Pavel had done it to discomfit him, but he was utterly sure of his language control.

  ‘Are you interested in Gegenschein?’ Adrian recited.

  ‘Do you know what Gegenschein is?’ mocked Pavel.

  ‘The faint light source covering a 20-degree field of view along the earth-sun line on the opposite side of the earth from the sun,’ replied Adrian, immediately. He looked up. ‘The questions are listed to prompt me,’ he said. ‘I try awfully hard to escape portraying myself as a complete cretin.’

  Adrian was glad they had lapsed into Russian. Irony sounded so much more vitriolic. Pavel nodded, accepting the rebuke.

  ‘The next probe will have electrically controlled cameras, working with a 55-mm. lens at F/1.2 on highspeed black and white. It’s essentially dim-light photography. We are inclined to accept the theory that the origin of Gegenschein is particles of matter trapped at the Moulton Point, reflecting sunlight. You know what the Moulton Point is?’

  He wasn’t relaxing for a moment, thought Adrian. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘The theoretical point 940,000 statute miles from earth along the anti-solar axis where the sum of all gravitational forces is zero.’

  ‘Bet you were the top boy in the class,’ mocked Pavel.

  ‘Alpha-plus every time,’ replied Adrian.

  ‘Or perhaps you’ve absorbed a lot. Alexandre must have been very forthcoming.’

  Adrian didn’t reply, but marked the response on his clipsheet for later examination when the tape was transcribed. He felt there had been a little too much eagerness in Pavel’s reaction, too much artifice in trying to annoy with sarcasm, then following up with a question which could have brought out any angry, unconsidered reply. Pavel went on. ‘Can I see Alexandra?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In a while.’

  ‘After you’ve drawn all the material possible from me?’

  Adrian smiled. The other man was remarkably well informed about debriefing procedure. ‘Yes,’ he smiled.

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘Depends on how long our debriefing sessions last.’ The Russian-speaking guards entered with coffee, and for a few moments they stopped talking. Adrian waited, putting a theory to the test. It was Pavel who broke the silence.

  ‘We could talk and take our coffee at the same time.’

  Adrian nodded, happy at the outcome. For the next three hours they talked, ranging over future Russian moon exploration from passive seismic experiments, suprathermal ion detection and cold cathode gauge probes to planned geology investigations and then covering, point by point, the equipment that would be provided in the space platforms and mooncraft.

  Adrian stopped at one-thirty. No cooked meal for forty-eight hours he thought, as he looked at his watch.

  ‘We made progress today,’ said Pavel.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, but I have to stop on the way here, so I won’t arrive until eleven-thirty.’

  ‘Oh, so he’s quite near here.’

  Adrian had his back to the Russian, storing clipboard and questions into the briefcase with the numbered combination lock, so the surprise was concealed.

  ‘Who?’ he parried.

  ‘Alexandre, of course,’ said Pavel, irritably.
‘Who else would you be seeing? Will you tell him about me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘No, I suppose there’s not a lot of point. You’ve got all you want from him, so there’s nothing to be gained in using my defection as a bargaining point or shock revelation.’

  ‘I can’t recall telling you that we’ve got everything from Bennovitch.’

  ‘Haven’t you then?’

  A fraction too quick, judged Adrian. He didn’t reply to the Russian’s question. Perhaps detecting his own eagerness, Pavel did not repeat it.

  Again Adrian drove leisurely back to London. It would not be possible for them to hear the full tape, but he would give them sufficient time to realize progress was being made.

  He thought about Anita, wedged in that cramped City office, typing out shipboard invoices and cargo manifests. She had said Anne Sinclair worked in the same building. But not a typist, judged Adrian, easing the car through Vauxhall. No, Anne Sinclair didn’t fit the role. She’d be a personal secretary, super-efficient, shouldering a lot of responsibility, friendly yet just a little bit too aloof from any office Romeo who tried to create any relationship. He wondered if anyone there knew of the association between the two women, guessed from intercepting a glance or seeing a half hidden gesture. Probably not. Anne Sinclair wouldn’t let that happen because it would reveal a failing and Adrian didn’t think she was a girl who admitted to any failings.

  Miss Aimes was in the office when he entered and carefully locked away the briefcase.

  ‘He hasn’t come back,’ she reported.

  Adrian was momentarily confused.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The pigeon.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He felt her looking at his creased suit. At least the shirt was fresh.

  ‘Your wife away?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I asked if your wife was away.’

  Why should he reply? The relationship between them had always been strictly businesslike, so there was no encouragement to impertinence, sarcasm veiled in what appeared a casual inquiry. He should put her in her place, immediately.

  ‘Yes,’ he lied instead. ‘As a matter of fact she is. Her mother … her mother is ill. She’s gone to the country to look after her.’