once a fortnight prime Georgian fruit and meat, for black market sale on a street stall in Moscow…’ The knee- pumping man stopped, apparently to consult some notes. ‘… The KGB deputy’s name is Afansasiev,’ Kazin recited. ‘The market is in Grebnoy Alley, every Wednesday. You have also, on occasions, exchanged money in the foreign currency bars at the Rossiya and Intourist hotels…’
Panchenko remained statued, gaze fixed over Kazin’s head.
‘Well?’ demanded Kazin.
‘Nothing to say,’ replied Panchenko, tight-lipped.
‘Under the corruption legislation introduced by Comrade General Secretary Gorbachov you are liable to fifteen years’ imprisonment.’
Panchenko still did not speak.
‘But I do not intend to initiate proceedings,’ disclosed Kazin. ‘I intend to promote you to replace the comrade colonel commanding this security division…’ Again Kazin paused. Then he added: ‘Who tried to switch the entire investigation on to you, when he himself came under suspicion. You really should not have trusted him as a business associate. Not to be relied on. Not, like I am, a man to be relied on. Never forget the need for loyalty, will you?’
‘Never, Comrade First Deputy,’ assured the man immediately.
‘You’ll remove all the evidence from records once you get your appointment, of course,’ predicted Kazin. ‘Never forget, either, that I have a complete file, will you?’
‘No, Comrade First Deputy.’
‘That from now on you are absolutely dependent upon me?’
‘No, Comrade First Deputy.’
The old ways, the good old ways, thought Kazin.
In Kabul, Yuri Malik moved away from Ilena, not wanting the irritating distraction of sex, listening incredulously as she recounted the details of the cable traffic that had passed between the Afghan capital and Moscow.
When she finished Yuri said distantly: ‘Maybe there really is a Comrade God.’ And without the need for press-ups, he thought.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said, confused by his reaction.
‘Neither do I,’ admitted Yuri. But he would, he determined: very soon he would.
5
Levin was not completely sure he had persuaded Galina; wouldn’t know whether or not she would actually come with him until the very act of defection – almost literally the cutting of the umbilical cord – but knew he had to act quickly before the already existing and heavy doubts hardened to outweigh the fragile arguments with which he’d worked to convince her. He walked apparently unhurriedly – but inwardly churning – through the upper corridor in the United Nations building, anxious to complete the established contact procedure and begin it all. The library – housing the hundreds of reports and pamphlets poured out by the UN but never, he suspected, read by anyone except their authors – was surprisingly full, at least a dozen people browsing among the partitioned gangways. But not, fortunately, cluttering the section devoted to his own subject, worldwide mineral deposits. Nervously impatient though he was, Levin proceeded with the proper professional caution, forcing himself to browse like the others through an American assessment of oil-bearing shale deposits, a necessary explanation for his presence there if he were challenged by a suspicious security officer of his own Soviet delegation. It was a full fifteen minutes before he made the move, with seeming casualness, picking up a Soviet account for what appeared to be comparison with some statistic from one of the other books and then replacing it. But not upright, as it had been: on its spine, the emergency, meeting-at-once request. Rigidly maintaining the professionalism, he did not immediately hurry away from the section, making protective time pass by staring down at type which blurred before his eyes and making meaningless notations on a pocket pad before finally putting the other two publications back in their designated places in the racks, but both properly upright this time. Would it be an hour, like they’d always promised? He hoped so. He was desperate for the impression at least that some action – some movement – was being started.
Despite the stomach-tensed, perpetual apprehension, Levin found a small amusement in the fact that Vadim Dolya had provided the way undetectably for him to make a meeting with the FBI. He’d already checked the other man’s commitments for the day, to ensure his presence in the peace studies office, and Dolya smiled up when Levin entered.
‘A favour,’ announced Levin.
‘What?’
‘You were right about the electrical goods: I think Galina is going to be an actual drain upon Moscow’s central grid system!’
Dolya continued smiling at the weak attempt at humour. ‘A shopping list?’
‘Almost a computer print-out: irons, toasters, microwaves, curling tongs… there seems to be nothing she hasn’t thought of.’
‘Is there anything to keep you here today?’ asked Dolya, who knew anyway that Levin’s diary was clear because it was his primary function to know at all times the activities of the KGB operatives for whom he was responsible.
‘No,’ said Levin.
‘Take as long as you want,’ offered Dolya generously. ‘And Yevgennie Pavlovich?’
‘What?’
‘Buy Japanese imports: they’re much more reliable than the American products.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ said Levin uncomfortably.
Levin walked purposefully from the United Nations building, veering right through the forecourt and by so doing going close to the Soviet-presented peace status of the figure wielding a hammer over a broadsword. In the early days of his appointment its inscription – ‘Let us beat swords into ploughshares’ – had amused Levin with its insincerity, but not any longer. He wondered how difficult it would be for him to be amused, ever again. He managed to catch the lights on UN Plaza and continued on down 44th Street, going a full block until he reached Second Avenue upon which he had already isolated a number of electrical stores and shops. He made no effort to establish any surveillance, either hoped-for (so fervently hoped-for) American or hoped-against Russian. The spine-downwards alert dictated that the FBI place him under observation from his moment of departure from the UN building and only make an approach – at their chosen time and location – when they were absolutely certain he was not being followed by his own people. No approach after an hour meant he was being monitored by the Russians and that any American meeting had to be abandoned, to await a later effort signalled by another misplaced book. At the thought of there being no encounter Levin felt perspiration prick out upon his back and form into rivulets. Galina would not be able to withstand any delay: he knew she wouldn’t. He was unsure if he could endure much delay himself. Near 45th Street he bought an electrical travelling iron and a small, electrically operated coffee-bean grinder, unwilling to burden himself with things that were too heavy because he didn’t intend transporting them anywhere anyway. To give his protectors as much help as possible identifying any pursuit Levin went further westwards on 45th, turning to complete the square on Park and skirting the overpowering PanAm building to regain 42nd Street. At the corner with Lexington, near the Grand Central Station complex and its rash of beer-crate and orange-box shoeshine vendors, he felt a presence to his right. A voice said: ‘The Hyatt bar. Not the garden.’
Levin showed no reaction, nor did he attempt to locate the person who gave the instruction, going instead immediately to his left into the waterfall-dominated foyer of the hotel built over the station. As he ascended the escalator to the mid-floor level Levin acknowledged the wisdom of the choice: it was huge and open plan, a human anthill of a place where the FBI could undetectably position as many watchers as they wanted without their becoming the focus of any attention. He turned away from the registration area and went up the next set of steps to the higher level but shook his head against the captain’s smiled invitation to be seated in the frond and flower bedecked garden area overhanging the street, going instead to the squared bar and carefully positioning himself with seats available either side. He paid at once and in cash for his whisky, not charging it to an accumulating tab;
