Goodbye to an Old Friend Read online

  ‘Let’s face it, Dodds,’ he began, his voice placatory now. ‘People don’t run on train lines, starting out from one spot in their character and then continuing in a straight, predictable line. That’s what human nature is, people behaving in an unexpected way. You’re surprised that Pavel has come across and can’t accept it. I’m surprised he’s come across and I can accept it. And the facts as we know them at the moment indicate that my assessment is right, don’t they?’

  Adrian refused to give up without a struggle. ‘On the facts as we know them at the moment,’ he said.

  Ebbetts frowned, angrily. He had been walking up and down the small office, an unsettling trick he had perfected, so that people had to move their heads back and forth, like a Wimbledon tennis audience. He stopped, leaning across the table towards Adrian, the determination to crush obvious.

  ‘All right,’ he said, his voice over-controlled. ‘Let’s argue your objections to their ultimate, illogical conclusion. If you’re convinced that Pavel is here for some underlying reason, then you must have decided what that reason is. Are you suggesting that Pavel is here in the role of an assassin, to liquidate a former partner?’

  ‘No, I …’

  ‘What then?’

  Ebbetts was being quite merciless, enjoying it even. Adrian wondered how much training it needed to develop the hardness, the disregard of everything except the need to win every discussion and point, no matter how trivial.

  ‘What then?’ echoed Sir William and Adrian looked at him in surprise. He’d almost forgotten his presence.

  Adrian shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  Ebbetts used that sigh again, the sneer more eloquent than any words.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now we’ve dispensed with any doubt about Pavel, let’s start thinking objectively.’

  He had resumed his pacing back and forth, but now he stopped, sitting down immediately opposite the debriefing team.

  ‘I know all about your usual procedures for debriefing, but this is an unusual case, a very unusual case, so we’re going to have to depart from routine.’

  ‘… depart from routine,’ came from the Premier’s right.

  ‘We’re under pressure, intense pressure,’ continued Ebbetts. ‘To hear the Russians talk, you’d think they’re going back to Berlin and the Cold War. I thought the Lyalin case was bad enough, but it was child’s play compared to this. Trouble is, the Americans seem to be backing the Soviets. Washington is very attracted by the Baikonur bait. If we don’t move quickly, there’ll be a major shift in friendships and we don’t want that.’

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Binns. Adrian realized how quiet the Permanent Secretary had been throughout the meeting. By his refusal to help, Sir Jocelyn was obviously expressing his agreement with the Prime Minister over the Pavel assessment.

  ‘I want Pavel debriefed quickly, more quickly than you’ve ever processed anyone before. I want the two men, Pavel and Bennovitch, thrown together. They’re friends. It’ll be a great psychological move, make them feel more relaxed, more ready to help …’

  He looked directly at Adrian.

  ‘I am not taking you off this debriefing,’ he said. ‘Normally, I would. I repeat the point I made earlier. I think you’ve conducted it extremely badly. But speed is the key factor here and I don’t want to waste time on introducing another interrogator. That would lose two, maybe three days. But listen to what I say – I don’t want to waste time. You’re to eradicate completely from your mind and your attitudes and your questions any hint of doubt about Pavel or his intentions in defecting. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Adrian, meekly.

  ‘I want to be able to promise Washington that their men can get to both Pavel and Bennovitch within a fortnight. The Americans want to go to Baikonur, but they want Pavel and Bennovitch even more. If I can give them a definite date, then we’ll keep the Americans on our side.’

  He smiled, a conjuror about to produce his best trick.

  ‘And if Pavel and Bennovitch go to America, then the bad feeling goes with them. So we’ll have all the space knowledge that the two men possess, America will be indebted to us for years and Russia will switch its anger and resume normal relations with us in about six months.’

  Despite his antipathy for Ebbetts, Adrian had to admire the reasoning. He sat, envying the man and his force-fulness. Anita would have admired it too. If he’d had the character of Ebbetts, then Anita would still be with him now, admiring him even, content to be dominated.

  Adrian jumped, realizing Ebbetts was addressing him. ‘I said, any questions?’ repeated the Prime Minister, irritably.

  ‘No,’ said Adrian. ‘No questions.’

  He paused, and it was obvious that he intended continuing, so they remained looking at him. ‘But I’d like to make a point, just one. I accept, from this afternoon’s meeting, how the stupidity of my doubts has been shown up …’

  The Prime Minister smiled and made a deprecating gesture with his hands as if, unthinkably, even he had made mistakes on rare occasions.

  ‘… I accept completely the instructions I have been given. Pavel and Bennovitch will be thrown together, the debriefing will be speeded up and I shall do everything within my power to ensure we extract the maximum information before they are offered the opportunity of going to America, with the attraction of a space programme to work upon …’

  ‘I admire your attitude,’ said Ebbetts, smiling.

  ‘But let me say this,’ went on Adrian, his voice rising above the monotone in which he had been speaking. ‘I still believe I am right. Although it will not be evident from my subsequent examination of either man, my suspicion remains. I believe that something will happen, something which none of us can guess at this moment. I believe what I have been told to do is wrong. I should be allowed more time.’

  He stopped, his stomach bubbling. For the first time in his life, Adrian Dodds had taken a position opposing that of the majority. He had expressed an opinion which isolated him from everyone, and put him in the spotlight. He had considered the outburst, at first dismissing the idea as ludicrous, but then he had realized that although he was being kept on the debriefing, for the sake of expediency, Sir Jocelyn would be told within hours to seek and train a new assistant.

  Adrian had accepted his dismissal from the department even before he received it, and he realized that there was nothing he could lose by honesty. He had therefore decided, for the first time in his life, to express himself instead of stifling what he was really thinking, even if it clashed with the view of everyone else.

  He had expected to feel euphoria, the self-satisfaction of knowing he was right against all opposition. Instead he felt sick and he wanted to use a toilet. He sat there with the three men staring at him as if he had mouthed an obscenity in a monastery, and wished more fervently than he ever had wanted anything before that he had kept his mouth shut.

  ‘I think,’ said Ebbetts, stiffly, ‘that this meeting is over.’

  Pompously, he walked from the room, trailed by the Foreign Secretary.

  As they walked back to their office, Adrian said, ‘I’m sorry. I know I’ve let you down. And the department too.’

  Binns did not reply. His face twitched.

  ‘This will be my last debriefing, won’t it?’

  ‘I expect so,’ said Binns, controlling the stutter with difficulty. He isn’t at ease with me any more, thought Adrian. I’ve lost his friendship.

  ‘I really am sorry,’ he repeated.

  ‘It can’t be helped. It’s done now.’

  ‘I regret letting you down, personally.’

  Binns shrugged. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Adrian. ‘There’s nothing else I can do.’

  They entered the maze behind the Foreign Office, leaving the sunbathers in St James’s Park still unworried.

  ‘I believe I am right,’ said Adrian.

  ‘Obviously,’ said Binns. ‘But was one opin
ion worth destroying a career?’

  ‘No,’ agreed Adrian, back into character again. ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  Yes, he thought, yes it was. The sickness had disappeared, but he still wanted a lavatory. Badly.

  Chapter Seven

  Binns looked grey and his eyes were red with strain. Adrian realized as he walked into the other man’s office the morning after their meeting with the Prime Minister that the Permanent Secretary had not slept.

  ‘I’ve read everything,’ began Binns, tapping the grey folders on the desk before him. ‘The histories, Bennovitch’s complete debriefing and your assessment, the debriefing of Pavel, all the protests and assessments by our experts and all the reports from the security officers guarding both men.’

  The speech impediment was still there. So the gap remained between them. Adrian waited for Binns to continue. The Permanent Secretary’s mouth moved, trying to create the words, and Adrian experienced the usual impulse to help, half forming the words ahead of the other man.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Binns finally managed.

  Still Adrian said nothing, realizing that Binns had spent a sleepless night trying to justify the suspicions he could not prove. Perhaps, still, the older man wanted the relationship to continue. The hope fluttered momentarily and then died. There was the department to consider, as well, and Adrian had brought that into disrepute.

  Binns seized one folder, and from the crimson marking below the ‘Strictly Limited’ classification Adrian saw it was a collection of reports from the twenty men entrusted with Pavel’s safety in Sussex.

  ‘Shall I tell you something about your confident defector?’ said Binns, the sarcasm lost because of the speech difficulty. ‘Have you any idea how scared he is?’

  ‘Scared?’ queried Adrian.

  ‘Yes, scared. Do you know he refuses to go outside during the day, for exercise, so frightened is he for his own safety. It doesn’t even matter that the men prove to him that they are armed.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Adrian.

  ‘Always it has to be at night and even then he doesn’t allow himself outside the security of the house for longer than fifteen minutes. Being so self-confidently aware of his worth is a two-edged sword as far as Pavel is concerned. He’s equally aware of his value to the Russians and how much they’d like to silence him. That man won’t have another completely relaxed moment for the rest of his life.’

  ‘So it would seem,’ said Adrian. The visit to Binns was unexpected, the demand made in a curt telephone call to his uncomfortable flat by the secretary who could brew Earl Grey tea. Before, reflected Adrian, Binns had made such calls himself. And now there wasn’t any tea, either.

  ‘You wanted to see me,’ he reminded.

  ‘Yes,’ said Binns, discarding the folders. He stopped a yawn with difficulty. ‘Something else has arisen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We should have anticipated it, of course,’ said Binns, refusing to be hurried. ‘But I’d overlooked it because of the pressures.’

  ‘What?’ repeated Adrian.

  ‘The Russians have officially sought consular access.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Adrian. He had thought about it on the first day, a routine move in cases of defection, but, like Binns, had forgotten it.

  ‘It’s normal,’ said Binns pointlessly.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The procedure is formulated.’

  ‘I know that, too.’ Adrian found himself growing annoyed at the other man’s attitude. He’d imagined their friendship deeper than this.

  ‘Pavel will have to be told. The choice whether or not he sees anyone from his own embassy will be entirely his. We must exert no pressure.’

  Adrian sighed at the recitation of the standing instructions which had to be learned during the first month in the department. His dismissal really had been decided.

  ‘Do you want me to tell him today?’

  ‘I think so. He should be given every opportunity.’

  Adrian smiled at the remark, the sort that Sir William Fornham would have made. Play up, play up and play the game, he mused. Those who cheated were called rotters and those who did what was expected, according to the public school dictum, were jolly good chaps. Adrian thought that the confessions of Kim Philby, whose background the security services had not probed because one gentleman does not question another from the same social stratum, had eradicated such attitudes.

  ‘Make it quite clear,’ lectured Binns, ‘that the choice is his. If he wants to see his people, then we’ll co-operate.’

  ‘He will,’ predicted Adrian and Binns looked up, startled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said he will,’ repeated Adrian.

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  Adrian hesitated. What the hell?

  ‘An impression I have – but one I’m not allowed to consider in my reports,’ he said. He immediately regretted it. There was no pleasure in scoring off Binns. If their friendship had died, it was only from one side.

  ‘Humph,’ said the older man, upset by Adrian’s reaction.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Adrian, ‘that if Pavel agrees, the meeting will be in the Foreign Office?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Binns. ‘He’ll be brought up overnight, so they won’t be able to establish where we’re keeping him from the travelling time.’

  ‘When do you want Pavel and Bennovitch brought together?’

  ‘As soon as possible,’ said Binns, officiously. ‘You heard the P.M. Time’s the important thing. That’s all that matters now.’

  ‘Do you agree? asked Adrian.

  ‘What?’

  The question embarrassed the Permanent Secretary.

  ‘Allowing for your disagreement with me over my doubts on Pavel, do you think we should abandon the established routine, one that has shown nearly a hundred per cent success in the past, and hurry the debriefing?’

  ‘It’s a special case,’ said Binns. ‘I think we’ve got to adjust our handling to suit the circumstances, and the circumstances dictate speed.’

  Adrian nodded at the reply, defining Binns’s reluctance.

  ‘It’s good to know you haven’t lost complete faith in me,’ he said.

  Binns stared at him, but did not reply.

  Adrian drove fast, angrily, into Sussex, knowing it was stupid and would achieve nothing, but doing it just the same. He wondered when they’d take the Rover away, with its extra-powerful engine, the car that Anita could never understand their being able to afford, believing his job to be that of a costing accountant at the Ministry of Social Security.

  He began creating a mental fact sheet, listing his qualifications for future employment. Age – 35. Height, 5′8″. Education – Triple First in modern languages at Oxford, after five years at Eton. Previous experience? – the Official Secrets Act would apply here, so he’d have to hide behind the Social Security lie again, directing any reference inquiries to the department that covered such gaps when a specialized person such as himself was declared no longer employable. Salary expected – minimum of £3,000. Qualifications – none, except the ability to communicate perfectly in twelve different languages and a basic knowledge of psychology. Prospects – nil.

  He could try translation, he supposed. Or some job at an airport where his peculiarity might be useful. Or a circus sideshow, he concluded bitterly.

  Bennovitch was happy to see him, the truculence of their last meeting completely gone.

  ‘My friend, come back to see me,’ he announced, waddling across the room. He seized Adrian’s hand, then refused to release him after the greeting, leading him over to the high-backed couch.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said. ‘I’ve looked forward to this day.’

  Adrian recalled the whining of three days ago, the complaints of boredom with only Adrian to talk to, and felt his diagnosis of Bennovitch’s mental state was being proved more and more by the pendulum of his emotions. He wondered how many years of work the Americans could h
ope for before Bennovitch had a nervous breakdown.

  ‘What news?’ asked Bennovitch, the phrase automatic.

  Adrian considered the blunt reply. Hadn’t the Prime Minister decreed speed? Then he thought of the effect upon Bennovitch’s uncertain personality and decided against it.

  ‘When will I see your experts?’ asked Bennovitch and then, without waiting for an answer, burbled on, revealing his thoughts of the last two days. ‘I have been wondering, will I be allowed any time to meet any American space people?’

  Adrian smiled. ‘I would think that’s pretty inevitable, wouldn’t you?’

  Bennovitch grinned back, as if they had a secret.

  ‘Are the Americans interested in me?’ he asked, anxious for the compliment.

  ‘Very,’ replied Adrian.

  ‘And they have got a space programme, which Britain hasn’t,’ pointed out Bennovitch, as if he were preparing an argument.

  Adrian smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They have.’

  ‘I went for a walk yesterday, by myself,’ Bennovitch declared suddenly, like a child revealing it had learned to count up to ten.

  ‘Really!’ encouraged Adrian.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bennovitch, pleased that Adrian appeared impressed. ‘I told the guards they needn’t worry and went down through the meadow and almost to the road …’

  The story trailed away. ‘Then I heard some cars and thought I’d better come back.’

  From the security officers, with whom he had spoken before meeting Bennovitch, Adrian knew the tiny Russian had stopped a mile from the road and come back almost at a run.

  ‘You must be settling down,’ said Adrian.

  ‘I am,’ agreed the scientist. ‘I’m beginning to feel far more relaxed.’

  Adrian felt it was time to start moving towards the point of the meeting.

  ‘Alexandre,’ he said, noting the smile the familiarity provoked compared to the annoyance that Pavel had shown. ‘I told you when we last met that you’d be meeting our space experts soon. And you will.’

  Bennovitch remained smiling.

  ‘But that meeting is being postponed,’ Adrian completed, abruptly.