efforts.’
This was horseshit, and everyone in the room knew it, but no one would say so. The proprieties had to be observed.
‘Indeed,’ said Grigori. ‘Nevertheless, I will mention it next time I get a chance to talk to the Comrade General Secretary of the Party. He may wish to look into it further.’
‘I hope so,’ said Zoya. ‘We want to be ahead of the West.’
‘And how about after work, Zoya?’ said Grigori cheerily. ‘Do you have a boyfriend, a fiance perhaps?’
Anya protested: ‘Dad! That’s none of our business.’
Zoya did not seem to mind. ‘No fiance,’ she said mildly. ‘No boyfriend.’
‘As bad as my son, Volodya! He, too, is single. He is twenty-three years old, well educated, tall and handsome – yet he has no fiancee!’
Volodya squirmed at the heavy-handedness of this hint.
‘Hard to believe,’ Zoya said, and as she glanced at Volodya he saw a gleam of humour in her eyes.
Katerina put a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘Stop embarrassing the poor girl.’
The doorbell rang.
‘Again?’ said Grigori.
‘This time I have no idea who it might be,’ said Katerina as she left the kitchen.
She returned with Volodya’s boss, Major Lemitov.
Startled, Volodya jumped to his feet. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said. ‘This is my father, Grigori Peshkov. Dad, may I present Major Lemitov?’
Lemitov saluted smartly.
Grigori said: ‘At ease, Lemitov. Sit down and have some chicken. Has my son done something wrong?’
That was precisely the thought that was making Volodya’s hands shake.
‘No, sir – rather the contrary. But . . . I was hoping for a private word with you and him.’
Volodya relaxed a little. Perhaps he was not in trouble after all.
‘Well, we’ve just about finished dinner,’ Grigori said, standing up. ‘Let’s go into my study.’
Lemitov looked at Ilya. ‘Aren’t you with the NKVD?’ he said.
‘And proud of it. Dvorkin is the name.’
‘Oh! You tried to arrest Volodya this afternoon.’
‘I thought he was behaving like a spy. I was right, wasn’t I?’
‘You must learn to arrest enemy spies, not our own.’ Lemitov went out.
Volodya grinned. That was the second time Dvorkin had been put down.
Volodya, Grigori and Lemitov crossed the hallway. The study was a small room, sparsely furnished. Grigori took the only easy chair. Lemitov sat at a small table. Volodya closed the door and remained standing.
Lemitov said to Volodya: ‘Does your comrade father know about this afternoon’s message from Berlin?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You’d better tell him.’
Volodya related the story of the spies in Spain. His father was delighted. ‘Well done!’ he said. ‘Of course this might be disinformation, but I doubt it: the Nazis aren’t that imaginative. However, we are. We can arrest the spies and use their radios to send misleading messages to the right-wing rebels.’
Volodya had not thought of that. Dad might play the fool with Zoya, he thought, but he still has a sharp mind for intelligence work.
‘Exactly,’ said Lemitov.
Grigori said to Volodya: ‘Your school friend, Werner, is a brave man.’ He turned back to Lemitov. ‘How do you plan to handle this?’
‘We’ll need some good intelligence men in Spain to investigate these Germans. It shouldn’t be too difficult. If they really are spies, there will be evidence: code books, wireless sets, and so on.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve come here to suggest we send your son.’
Volodya was astonished. He had not seen that coming.
Grigori’s face fell. ‘Ah,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I must confess, the prospect fills me with dismay. We would miss him so much.’ Then a look of resignation came over his face, as if he realized he did not really have a choice. ‘The defence of the revolution must come first, of course.’
‘An intelligence man needs field experience,’ Lemitov said. ‘You and I have seen action, sir, but the younger generation have never been on the battlefield.’
‘True, true. How soon would he go?’
