The stewardess, who looked comically like a wardress, ordered them, in Russian and English, to fasten their seatbelts and extinguish all cigarettes. She then strode down the aisle and forcibly removed cigarettes from the unsuspecting passengers’ mouths, several of whom gave cries of pain as flecks of skin were torn from their lips; but they made no complaint. A moment later the steward appeared, carrying a whole tray of cigarettes, of English and Russian brands, which he proceeded unsmilingly to offer round. Cayle sighed contentedly; even before they’d taken off, he felt already close to Russia.
He was unable to fasten his seatbelt, as the buckle was missing, so he knotted it instead. Eventually the pilot came aboard, sucking an orange; and a few minutes later they took off. The stewardess came round again, this time with chocolates, beakers of wine and mugs of kvas, an insipid grey liquid made from bread and which is known as ‘Russian Coca-Cola’. Cayle’s beaker was replenished at generous intervals, and he soon dozed off.
He woke to feel his legs numb with cold. The other passengers, including the red-haired man across the gangway, were again wearing their overcoats. Cayle pulled his anorak down from the rack, but it did not reach below his thighs. He eventually attracted the stewardess and asked for a blanket. ‘It is being used,’ she replied stiffly.
Someone gave a harsh laugh; it was the red-haired man.
‘Bloody typical! I know some people who only travel on this line with a water-bottle.’ He was leaning over towards Cayle. ‘Mind if I join you?’ Before Cayle could reply, he had slipped across the gangway and dropped into the seat beside him. ‘Going to Moscow? Or stopping in Denmark?’
‘Moscow,’ Cayle said, without enthusiasm. He had had a late night and was hoping to get some sleep on the plane. Besides, the stranger’s appearance was not prepossessing. He was about forty, with a low forehead, sharp predatory features, and a slight inflation round his nose and his mouth as though he suffered from a permanent cold. His red hair was tough and wiry, and reminded Cayle of rusted iron wool.
‘That’s great! We’re going there together.’ The little man held out his hand; it was small, but gave Cayle’s a bone-cracking squeeze. ‘Maddox is the name. Leonard Maddox…’
‘Barry Cayle.’
‘Glad to meet you, Barry.’ He paused, then turned, grinning like a dog. ‘Barry Cayle,’ he repeated: ‘I know that name from somewhere. I’m certain I do!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Don’t tell me — I’ll get it in a jiff. That’s it — you’re a writer. Newspapers — the telly.’ Maddox stretched his neck, showing a rim of acne under his collar. ‘Not that I get much time to read the papers, mind — ’cept the financial pages. And in Moscow, o’ course, it’s just the Morning Star. But I’ve always been interested to meet you journalist chaps. Never know when you might pick up something useful.’
Cayle felt that this was somehow his cue, but deliberately ignored it. He did not like this turn of the conversation. For a start, he was fairly modest about his status, and was always surprised when he was recognized by people outside the profession. Besides, on his own admission, Maddox didn’t read newspapers; and apart from a BBC film of his ill-fated Transatlantic yachting expedition, Cayle scarcely appeared on television.
Maddox went on: ‘Going to Moscow on business, or pleasure?’ He laughed. ‘Silly question, I know. A good journalist’s always on business. Like policemen — always on duty.’
Cayle again declined the cue. Instead, he said: ‘And you, Mr Maddox?’
‘Business, o’ course! You don’t get me holed up in a dump like Moscow unless there’s something in it for Lennie Maddox. And I don’t mean women. In Moscow that’s a dead loss — unless you don’t mind sharing your bed with Galina Borisovna.’ He caught Cayle’s eye and leered: ‘KGB, old boy. Never refer to the outfit by its real name. Here, take this.’ He snatched a card out of his top pocket and handed it to Cayle. One side was printed in English, the other in Cyrillic. Cayle read:
Leonard E. Maddox AMA
Entreprises Lipp SA
5, Quai du Mont Blanc
Genève
Room 1727
Hotel Intourist
Pushkin St
Moscow I, USSR
He started to hand it back, but Maddox waved it away. ‘What line of business are you in, Mr Maddox?’
‘Money.’ Maddox gave his canine grin. ‘Money, money, money! You’d be surprised, the Russians are just as keen on it as the next man. Once you’ve hacked your way through all the red tape, and made them sign on the dotted line, you’ve got a deal. Ever heard of a Russian welshing? They’d get bloody shot if they did!’
‘You spend a lot of time in the Soviet Union?’ said Cayle.
‘On and off. Not a bad country, once you get used to it. The great thing about the Russian people is they’ve got no side to them. They accept you for what you are. That’s what’s wrong with Britain — everyone bangs on about free enterprise and opportunities for all, but when it comes to the crunch, what still matters is what bloody accent you’ve got and whether you wear the right tie.’ He paused. ‘I’ve got a little confession to make to you, Barry. That card I just gave you, it tells a bit of a fib. Those initials after my name — AMA, short for Association of Management Accountants — well, I used to be a member, see, but I got struck off. No skin off my nose, mind! I was just too good at my job. Fixed a beautiful tax dodge for a property company I was working for, only the Revenue boys didn’t like it and
