would have done so at once. And for the possibility that it had gone from New York by air and not by road, which he doubted but for which he had to make allowances because in a letter from Levin there was reference to a helicopter journey and of having flown directly over Washington landmarks like the Capitol building and the Washington obelisk and Lincoln Memorial. On his chart, Yuri wrote ‘Five hours’ but was prepared to adjust either higher or lower. In the same letter Natalia had obediently followed his instruction to complain about the coldness of Moscow and from Petr it prompted the sort of reply for which Yuri had hoped.
‘It is cold here, too,’ the boy wrote. ‘We are told there are a lot of ski lodges and that the snow will be here in a week or two, a month at the outside.’
From the date on the letter Yuri wrote ‘November, first or last week?’ recognizing it as an indicator hopefully as positive as the timing of the replies. It definitely ruled out at least twelve of the southern or mid-west states, where snow never fell. And also the mountain or western states where it did, because on such high ground the snow was permanent and not dependent upon the seasons. And to none of them, even by aeroplane, could a letter have been delivered from New York and prompted a reply in such a short time. There was winter skiing in the Catskill Mountains, Yuri knew. Throughout New England, too. Still a vast area: too vast.
At the first reading Yuri underlined Levin’s listing of the Washington landmarks, seeking a significance but not immediately finding it. Caught suddenly by an idea, Yuri posed as the journalist he was supposed to be and telephoned the Federal Aviation Authority in Washington using his legend name of William Bell and the title of his Amsterdam cover publication to be told that no civil or commercial winged aircraft would be permitted low-level overflight of the sort he described. It would, however, be possible by helicopter, the spokesman helpfully added. Before ringing off Yuri established the average cruise speed of small, passenger-carrying helicopters and by computing speed against time came up again with a travelling period of around five hours, four at the minimum. Levin had not only described Washington from the air. He’d written of flying over New York. Which indicated an approach from the north. Marking the American capital as the extreme of one sweep of the compass Yuri halved his equation and completed the circle with Washington as that one outside marker. It created a radius that stopped just short of Boston but reached out to include huge tracts of Virginia, West Virginia, practically all of Pennsylvannia, and further daunting areas in Connecticut, New York State and Massachusetts. Too much, he thought. Too much while he possessed too little to enable him to narrow the boundaries.
On his graph he created a box, in which to list the references he considered important but which he could not understand. What did the passage in Levin’s earliest letter mean, referring to trees that appeared from the air to be defoliated, like the Americans defoliated Vietnam? Or the phrase about apparent vantage points to the sea where there was no sea? Or even more intriguing, the paragraph that read of spies in statues and spies in history.
Still too many questions against too few answers. When was it going to change, the other way? Another question, Yuri recognized.
31
John Willick felt like he had that special day, when he’d been a kid of fourteen. His father, who had been first mate on an oil tanker and away from home for months at a time, had returned from sea and taken him to the amusement park at Coney Island and told him he could go on as many rides as he liked; do what he liked. Willick didn’t think he’d missed one, not a single one. And he’d eaten ice cream as well and candied apples and cotton candy and then he’d been sick, violently, the man standing behind him and holding him around the waist, to stop him falling over. It had been wonderful.
Willick was sure he was not going to be sick this time, although the chance seemed there from the moment he seated himself in the first-class section of the Air France 747, immediately to be handed champagne and then foie gras and after that a white wine and a red wine he’d never heard of, to go with the seafood and the beef prepared in a way he’d never heard of, either. Wonderful, like that day at Coney Island. Only better. He was grown up now.
He celebrated during the flight but was careful not to get drunk, aware despite his euphoria that he’d escaped disaster (would he really have been so sexually abused, in prison?) by inches or by minutes and not wanting to endanger that escape by a mistake until he was completely safe, in Moscow. He still had a slight headache when the plane landed at Paris, at breakfast time because of the time change, and felt gritty-eyed and stubble-chinned. From Charles de Gaulle airport he took a taxi into the centre of Paris, chose a cafe at random actually on the Champs Elysees that he’d seen in all the movies and on television and sat over coffee that was too bitter, watching the city wake up around him. Free! he thought: I’m free. Free of Eleanor and free of horses that don’t win and stocks that don’t rise and free of pay-or-else letters and most important of all free of fear. He knew – was absolutely certain – that Moscow was going to be terrific. A new start, with the slate wiped clean and his being treated properly, like he should be treated, with respect. No one had ever treated him properly, with respect. Not Eleanor or those bastards in the CIA. Never. Served them right, all of them. Bastards. Bitches and bastards. Good, to be free.
Willick felt a twitch of apprehension when he came to pay but the waiter, who spoke English, accepted the American money and thanked him politely for a three-dollar tip, which was twice what it should have been, and Willick set off for the Soviet embassy buoyed by the gratitude. Being treated properly, he thought; with respect.
He had to ask twice for directions to the street address Oleg had given him in the Washington bar (could it really have only been last night, less than twenty-four hours?) and when he located it at last Willick’s uncertainty worsened at the sight of the uniformed gendarmes on duty around the embassy, with a police truck that looked like a shed on wheels obviously drawn up in a side street.
The American loitered on the far side of the avenue, watching the arrivals and departures, realizing with relief that there was no entry challenge from the French policemen. Stomach in turmoil, wishing now he had not eaten the seafood and the beef in that rich sauce on the aircraft, Willick forced himself to cross the road and walk as confidently as he could past the guards and into the compound, ears ringing for the demand to stop, which never came. Wet-palmed, he handed the letter that Oleg had given him to the unsmiling clerk at the vestibule desk, praying there was a lavatory nearby that he could use. Damn the seafood; shellfish had never agreed with him.
The letter was dispatched with a guard, the response was instantaneous, and Willick’s nervousness ebbed away just as quickly. Being treated properly, just like he knew he’d be. Respectfully.
Sergei Kapalet, who never identified himself, strode arm outstretched from somewhere at the rear of the building, retaining Willick’s hand to guide him back beyond the entrance. Willick expected an office but instead was led into a kind of apartment, with couches and easy chairs and even fresh flowers in a vase. There was not just a lavatory for Willick’s immediate need but a shower and a complete toilet kit, for him to shave, and a robe he was able to wear while his suit was pressed and his shirt laundered. In his excellent English Kapalet maintained a constant and relaxing stream of small talk, inquiring about the flight and wondering about the delay in Willick’s expected arrival at the embassy (there is nothing like the first petit dejeuner on the Champs Elysees, he agreed) and promising the American he’d chosen an excellent restaurant for lunch.
The idea of leaving the security of the embassy surprised Willick. Kapalet laughed at the doubt and said: ‘Why not?’ and Willick smiled back and agreed: ‘Why not?’ He was free, after all. Still difficult to adjust.
They ate at the Taillevent, on the Rue Lamenais, Willick deferring completely to the Russian’s obvious familiarity and expertise around a French menu and wine list. Willick could not remember ever having eaten or drunk anything that came remotely close to what Kapalet ordered. Just twenty-four hours earlier, for that nerve-jangled lunch in the CIA cafeteria, there’d been meat loaf and coffee, he remembered, disgusted. Not something to remember; something to forget. Like so much else. America – his life there – was over, Willick recognized. It was his future that was important now, the thing to think about: his wonderful, free, rewarding future.
His mind on that, Willick said: ‘When am I to go to Moscow?’
‘There is an Aeroflot flight tonight. Seven o’clock,’ said Kapalet.
‘Yes,’ accepted Willick. It was a ridiculous reaction – he was tired, he told himself – but there was the vaguest feeling of regret. It would have been nice to have stayed in Paris for a day or two. Not that he had any doubt about Moscow: of course he hadn’t. Just liked to have seen a bit more of Paris – eaten in a few more
