espionage.'
'A fucking spy was allowed to break out?'
'You will remember I have drawn attention to Major Vasily Kypov's command twice in the past few weeks.
Events in that camp have shown a disturbing laxity. I have to report a certain criticism from State Security that a prisoner of such sensitivity should have been able to cut his way out of the camp.'
The Procurator General's gaze sharpened, in the face of this criticism, what is the wish of the State Security in relation to the spy?'
'He will be moved.'
'Soon?'
'Within a few days, when arrangements have been made.'
'And the criticism…?' it was sharp.'
'The prisoner will be in the punishment cells until he is moved?'
'Of course.'
'Thank you.'
'Good night, Comrade Procurator, I wish you a safe journey home.'
'I'm bored to tears with Intelligence. Do you understand me?'
The Foreign Secretary poked a bony index finger into the shirt front of the Deputy Under Secretary. They stood beside a curtained window away from the table where a dozen guests sat amongst brandy glasses and cigar smoke.
'Nevertheless I wanted to bring the matter to your attention before my departure for Washington.'
'You've let yourself down, man, you know that. Something pressing, you said, and I've a damned table full of people to look after. You reckon this is pressing? Eh? You're obsessed with Intelligence. You forget other people are not.'
The Foreign Secretary looked with longing over the shoulder of the Deputy Under Secretary towards his guests, the decanter, their conversation.
'So what do you want from me?'
'Only some sort of commitment.'
'Commitment to what?'
'To argue our corner with Security.'
'And supposing what you call 'our corner' diverges from policy, the policy of Her Majesty's Government.'
'I don't understand you, sir.'
'Straightforward, I would have thought… Intelligence is covert warfare. I am responsible for gathering Intelligence, I am also responsible for diplomacy. Diplomacy is not a battleground, it is an exercise in building bridges of trust.'
'I don't understand you, sir.'
'Policy accepted by Cabinet is currently directed towards a renewal of detente between our side and the Soviets, in words of one syllable. If I support the dredging into custody of a nondescript Trade Delegation chauffeur and his subse-quent conviction in a blare of publicity, then I can hardly be accused of pursuing a policy of detente with enthusiasm.
Charge this driver and I'll lose the Parliamentary delegation to Moscow next week. Stands to reason that they have to retaliate… What's the name of this fellow you want back?
Remind me.'
'Michael Holly. He's there because of our mistake, Foreign Secretary.'
'Because of your department's mistake, I should ride across H M G policy?'
'We would greatly appreciate it if you would argue our corner with Security.'
'You're not prepared to forget about this young man, this Michael Holly?'
'I said to the desk officer who despatched him that if he ever forgot about Michael Holly I'd break his neck.'
With an involuntary and sharp little movement, the Foreign Secretary stepped back as if suddenly intimidated.
He gazed into the face of the Deputy Under Secretary but met only the clear hazel eyes, unblinking and without emotion. A slow smile spread across the Foreign Secretary's mouth.
'I believe you're bullying me, Deputy Under Secretary.'
'Sir?'
'I'll argue your corner.'
'Thank you, sir.' if you hadn't used that one word, I would never have agreed. Whenever the time comes I would like to meet this Holly who so stirred the conscience of the Service.' if you're sure you wouldn't be bored, sir.'
They laughed together, in quiet conspiracy. And the pointed fingers of the Foreign Secretary tapped on the Deputy Under Secretary's shoulder in happy rhythm at the secrecy of their joke.
Millet was a lonely passenger off the last train.
It was more than an hour since the Deputy Under Secretary had telephoned through to the East European desk where Millet had waited throughout the evening in the company of the night staff. Alan Millet was to prepare a paper that would go to Foreign and Commonwealth. And the conclusion was better than DUS had thought possible.
Not all victory, of course; a bit of give and take. Security would be offered complete freedom to decide when any pick-up might be effected.
And, of course, they might not bite. Taking everything for granted, Millet reckoned. There was nothing to say the Soviets wanted a creepy chauffeur back so badly that they would be prepared to wipe out Alan Millet's failure. But it was a beginning, it was a journey started.
Late at night, past midnight, and Alan Millet was heading for the one person that he must tell of his efforts for Michael Holly's release.
He paused in front of the door. What the hell was he doing there? Smearing his failure around the south-west London suburbs. Out of his mind he must have been, to believe that he could spread that failure and then drape over it a boast of his success. Loud, lively music cascaded over him, dancing music. Perhaps his nerve would not hold against the barrage of noise – shouting, singing, movement and happiness. Perhaps he would walk away, find a telephone box and ring for a mini-cab home. The door mocked him. He was cold, he was wet, he was part of a faraway camp. That camp had no place in the life blood of a party.
The door shut out the camp. His fingers found the bell button and pressed.
A young man opened the door, glass in hand. A young man who was a little drunk and trying to relate to an intruder in a wet raincoat standing in the doorway.
'Yes?'
'I've come to see Angela.'
His eyebrows flickered upwards, surprised. He giggled.
'She's a bit busy… '
Millet pushed his way past the young man. He stepped over the legs of a couple twined on the floor in the corridor.
He came to the entrance of the living room, stared into the hushed light, winced at the noise, searched for the face of the woman he must speak with.
'Did you bring a bottle, squire…?' The young man shouted behind him.
He might have been black, he might have had the plague.
The dancers watched him, the couples on the floor watched him, those on the sofa watched him. The music boomed at his ears. He felt the dampness in his shoes, he felt the wetness of his trouser legs. The heat and the smoke were suffocating.
He couldn't see her. Amongst all the faces grinning at him as if he was a zoo freak, he could not find her.
He turned back to the young man who had opened the door to him. 'I have to speak to Angela.'
Again the giggle. 'I said she was busy.'
