He was not aware of the audience gathering about them. 'Bloody nonsense.'
'We deplore terrorism.'
'Bloody nonsense.'
'I am instructed… '
' Then your instructions are bloody nonsense.'
Half the salon was hushed, following the sport. The Australian laughed out loud.
'Innocent.'
'In a brothel, sir, you would not be believed. Senior officers in your armed forces planned, and did their damnedest to achieve, the destruction in mid-flight of a fully loaded civilian aircraft. You and your clan, you disgust me.'
The laughter ran. The tittering amusement spread over the end of the salon.
The political counsellor seemed to rise on his toes.
'You insult my government.'
He boomed, 'The man's not born who could do that.'
The political counsellor swung on his heel, thrust his way through the diplomats. The laughter would have been a tide in his ears. His back vanished.
The Australian handed the British ambassador the glass. 'Bit strong, Sylvester, but you gave us a good laugh.'
He looked keenly at his friend. 'My elder daughter, Aggie, she's doing a year's voluntary work on a kibbutz in southern Israel. If those bastards had had their way she'd have been obliterated along with 300 others. She happened to be on that flight.'
After two more drinks and a full minute's conversation with the General Secretary, he left the reception, down the steps to his waiting car. He shuddered.
The dark depression of autumn was settling on Moscow.
2
Just before midnight the British Airways Boeing 737 touched down at Sheremetyevo, modern and miserable and the gateway to Moscow.
An hour later, Customs and Immigration on high quality go-slow, young Holt met his girl.
'Pretty damn late, young man.'
' They had to hold the flight so I could say goodbye to my lady.'
'Pig' Jane pouted.
And she came to him and grabbed him and hugged him and kissed him.
The Second Secretary stood back and looked at his watch and coughed and shuffled, and wondered whether the Foreign and Commonwealth Office had got itself intothe business of love-broking, for crying out loud, He had to cough twice more, and there was a ring of petal pink smudges around young Holt's mouth.
'Fifteen pairs, r i g h t… Just the same as usual. Fifteen atExtra Large, with gussets… Just as long as you don't forget… and give my love to Hermione… Bye, darling, keep safe.'
The ambassador put down the telephone, and looked up. God, and the boy seemed young. Not tall and not short, but with an impact because of the set of his shoulders and the sturdiness of his hips. The sort of boy who would have captained the Fifteen at Marlborough, an adult's body and a youngster's face.
He had been in the room through the latter part of the ambassador's call and had stood midway between the door and the desk as if on a parade ground and at ease, relaxed and yet formal.
'So, you're young Holt. Welcome to Moscow, Mr Holt.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'None of that formality. I'm not 'sir'. We're a family here. I may be the patriarch, but not a frightening one, I hope. What's your first name, Mr Holt?'
'It's Peter, sir, but I'm generally just Holt.'
'Then we have a bargain. I'll call you Holt, and you don't call me 'sir'. Done?'
'Thank you, Ambassador.'
'You're a stickler for etiquette, young m a n… ' Did he not look young? The smile was that of a teenager, bright and open. He liked his naturalness. He reckoned a man who could smile well was an honest man.
'… What do you think of the job they've given you?'
'It seemed to me that private secretary to the ambassador was about the best first posting that a Soviet specialist could expect.'
'I was where you were three weeks before the Cuban missile crisis broke. I loved every day of my year here – and I hope you will… No, I wasn't talking in code on the phone. My wife's had to go back to London, mother not well, and she may be stuck there for a couple of weeks. We have a tradition of always bringing back some presents for our staff, the Soviet staff. Money doesn't matter to them, so we try to get them merchandise that's hard to come by here. You won't have seen the ladies who clean our apartment, cook for us, but they're all former Olympic shot putters, so it's Marks amp; Spencer's tights that keep the cobwebs out of the corners and the pots scoured. We're a small compact unit here. We all have to pull our weight. It is as Interesting and fascinating a posting for me as it is for you, but it's only by damned hard work that we stay afloat. There are no passengers in this embassy. Now I have to move on to the facts of life for you in the Soviet Union. Everything you have been told in London about the hazards of illicit contacts with the local population is true. We call it the honey trap. If the KGB can compromise you, then they will. If you don't believe me then go and talk to the Marines, the American Marines, at their embassy, they'll tell you how sticky a honey trap can be. Our security officer will brief you at much greater length, but my advice is always, always, always be on your guard.'
'Understood.'
The ambassador liked the reply, couldn't abide waffle.
'Miss Davenport showed you in, she's my personal assistant, but you as my private secretary will be responsible lor keeping my schedule workable. You're my trouble-shooter if things need sorting out, and you'll and I have a very short fuse when the planning goes awry.'
' I hope it won't come to that.'
'In twelve days we're heading for the Crimea, that's something of a bonus for you, getting out of the rat cage no quickly. We're away for five days, based on Yalta.
You'll find it all in the file that Miss Davenport will give you – pity there couldn't have been a hand-over from your predecessor.'
'I understood he has pneumonia.'
'We flew him out. Always get a man out if he's lick, standard procedure… I'd like you to go through the file and check each last detail of the programme. I don't want to be pitching up at a hotel where the booking isn't confirmed, and I don't want to be in a black tie when our hosts are in pullovers.'
''I'll get on with it.'
The ambassador's head ducked, but his eyes were still on Holt. There was a glimmer of a smile at his mouth. 'I hear you're engaged to be married.'
Holt couldn't help himself, blushed. 'Not officially, it'll happen sometime.'
'She's a lovely girl, our Miss Canning, broken all the bachelors' hearts here, a touch of romance will lift our spirits. You'll both be in demand. But I expect it to be a circumspect romance.'
'Yes, Ambassador.'
'Nose to the grindstone, Holt.'
Holt took his cue, left the room.
The ambassador was Sir Sylvester Armitage. When he had been young he had cursed his parents for the name they had christened him with, but as he had risen through the ranks of the Diplomatic Corps, as the honours and medals had gathered in his pouch, so the given name had achieved a certain distinction. A tall, bluff man, working crouched over his desk with his suit jacket hooked to the back of his chair, and his braces bright scarlet. He had warmed to young Holt, and if young Holt had won the heart of Jane Canning then there had to be something
