his breathing.
‘Braley,’ the man introduced. ‘American embassy.’
Another C.I.A. man? wondered the Briton.
‘Hello,’ he returned, minimally.
‘Could be a good party.’
Snare looked at him, but didn’t bother to reply.
‘Not seen you before. Been in Washington on leave, myself.’
‘I envy you,’ said Snare, with feeling.
‘Don’t you like Moscow?’
‘No.’
‘How long will you be stationed here?’
‘As briefly as possible,’ said Snare.
Christ, thought Braley. And the man was supposed to have diplomatic cover: hadn’t anyone briefed him?
‘Believe you’ve met my colleague, Jim Cox?’ said Braley, brightly.
Snare looked at the second American and nodded. He wasn’t practising his basket approach tonight, Snare saw. What had really offended him about Cox, a thin-faced, urgent-demeanoured man who did callisthenics every morning and jogged, according to his own confession, for an hour in the U.S. embassy compound in the afternoon, was the discovery that the price he was offering Snare for the duty-free, embassy-issued Scotch would have only allowed a profit of twenty pence a bottle. The offence was not monetary, but the knowledge that others in the embassy would have learned about it and laughed at him for being gullible, particularly after the apparent well- travelled act of bringing in the beans and sausages. Everyone would know now that it wasn’t his idea, but somebody else’s. They’d probably guess Charlie Muffin, he thought; in his first few days in the Soviet capital, there had been several friendly enquiries about the bloody man.
Snare looked back to Braley. So he was an Agency man, too. Best not to encourage them.
‘Excuse me,’ said Snare, edging away. ‘I’ve just seen somebody I must talk to.’
‘An idiot,’ judged Braley, watching the Englishman disappear through the crowd.
‘I told you he wasn’t liked,’ reminded Cox. Apart from the invisible basket-ball practice, Cox had the habit of rising and falling on the balls of his feet, to strengthen his calf muscles. He did it now and Braley frowned with annoyance. Cox would probably die of a heart attack when he was forty, thought the unfit operative.
‘I thought you were exaggerating,’ confessed Braley. ‘He’s unbelievable.’
‘It’s been like this all the time.’
‘The Director said there had been changes. I wasn’t aware how bad their service had got. They certainly need our involvement.’
Cox dropped an imagined ball perfectly through the shade of a wall light, nodding seriously to his superior.
‘The Russians
Braley looked at him, sadly.
‘They know us all,’ he cautioned. ‘Don’t …’
‘Here he is,’ broke off Cox, urgently.
Braley stopped talking, looking towards the entrance. There were ten in the Russian party. Kalenin was the last to come through the door, separated from the others by a gap of about five yards. He wore uniform, which seemed to engulf him, and moved awkwardly, as if uncomfortable among so many people.
Politely he stood last in line as his colleagues eased forward, greeting the ambassador and the assembled diplomatic corps.
‘And there goes Snare,’ completed Cox, needlessly.
The Englishman had positioned himself near the side table laid out with cocktail snacks. He moved away as the Russians entered, remaining halfway between it and the greeting officials, permitting him a second chance of an encounter, as they came to eat, if Colonel Wilcox failed to hold Kalenin sufficiently for the rehearsed meeting.
But Wilcox didn’t fail. Soldierly obedient to his instructions, the distinguished, moustached officer immediately moved to engage Kalenin, and Snare continued forward. He estimated he had ten minutes in which to confirm absolutely the conviction about the Russian General by discovering the conditions.
Wilcox saw his expected approach and smiled, half turning in feigned invitation. It was going almost too well, thought Snare, apprehensively, entering the group.
‘General, I don’t believe you’ve met the newest recruit to our embassy, Brian Snare.’
The Englishman waited, uncertain whether to extend his hand. Kalenin gave a stiff little bow, nodding his head.
Befitting the Gilbert and Sullivan string ensemble, decided Snare, answering the bow.
‘A pleasure, General,’ he began. It would, he guessed, be another fencing session, like that which Harrison had recorded so well from East Germany.
‘And mine,’ responded the Russian.
‘Your command of English is remarkably good,’ praised Snare, seeking an opening. He glanced almost imperceptibly at Wilcox, who twisted, seeking an excuse to ease himself from the conversation and avoid the involvement that so worried him.
‘It’s a language I enjoy,’ replied Kalenin. ‘Sometimes I listen to your B.B.C. Overseas broadcasts.’
An unexpected confession, judged Snare. And one that could create problems for the man.
‘They’re very good,’ offered Snare, inadequately.
‘Sometimes a little misguided and biased,’ returned Kalenin.
The reply a Russian should make, assessed Snare. Now there was no danger in the original remark.
Although a small man, the Russian looked remarkably fit, despite the rumoured dedication to work. Snare found him vaguely unsettling; Kalenin had the tendency to remain completely unmoving, using no physical or facial gestures in conversation. The man reminded Snare of a church-hall actor, reciting his responses word-perfect, mindless of their meaning.
‘Excuse me,’ muttered Wilcox, indicating the British ambassador who stood about ten feet away. ‘I think I’m needed.’
Good man, judged Snare. He’d exonerate him from any criticism of the embassy when he returned to London. He saw the faintest frown ripple Kalenin’s face at the departure.
‘There are other opportunities for practising the language, of course,’ said Snare, conscious of the time at his disposal.
‘At receptions like this,’ suggested Kalenin, mildly.
‘Or at trade gatherings, like those of Leipzig,’ said Snare. He had to hurry, risking rebuttal, he decided.
Kalenin was looking at him quite expressionlessly. It would never be possible to guess what the man was thinking, realised Snare. Debriefing him would take years; and a cleverer man than Charlie Muffin.
‘In fact,’ continued the Englishman. ‘I think you met a colleague of mine recently at Leipzig.’
‘Wonder what they’re talking about,’ said Braley, leaning against the far wall forty feet away.
‘Our turn will come, if all goes well,’ said Cox, descending two inches from his calf exercise.
‘I wish you’d stop doing that,’ protested Braley, breathily. ‘I find it irritating.’
Cox looked at him, surprised.
‘Sorry,’ he apologised. Sensitivity of a sick man confronted with good health, he rationalised. Poor guy.
Cox was a joke who needed replacing, decided Braley, enjoying his new intimacy with the C.I.A. Director. He’d get the man moved as soon as possible.
‘A colleague?’ Kalenin was questioning, accepting champagne from a passing tray. He didn’t drink, Snare noted, holding his own glass untouched. Kalenin was a careful man, he decided, unlikely to make any mistakes.
‘Yes. At the British tractor stand.’
‘Ah,’ said Kalenin, like someone remembering a chance encounter he had forgotten.
Taking the lead, he said: ‘Have you seen your friend lately?’
‘No,’ said Snare, intently. ‘But I know fully of your conversation.’
Kalenin had his head to one side, examining him curiously, Snare saw. His reply did not appear to be that which Kalenin had anticipated, he thought.
