‘Not personally. He’s only been out here a few weeks.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Why, d’you fancy him?’
‘Come on, Frank, we all have to do our share of arse-licking. What’s his name?’
‘Hann. Simon Hann. With a name like that he should be running a bloody antique shop!’ There was another burst of applause, as Pol was hauled on to the rostrum and waddled up to the microphone, his silk suit shining like shark-skin under the chandeliers.
Cayle’s interest was momentarily divided. Each of the Soviet Ministers stepped up and embraced Pol, their bodies swaying together like pairs of grotesque lovers. ‘What’s his position, do you know?’ said Cayle.
‘Something to do with Chancery, I heard. Which means he’s probably a spook.’ There was a ripple of polite laughter round the hall, as Pol made a joke in bad Russian. He stood beaming down at his audience, his lips parted in an impish grin. Cayle lowered his voice and said, ‘I’d like to have a chat with this Hann. Can you introduce me?’
‘I suppose so. I’ve nothing to lose but my sense of humour.’
The British party consisted of three men, all of whom looked round with obvious distaste as Smollett approached. The First Secretary broke off what he was saying and gave an artificial smile: ‘Hello, Frank, enjoying the festivities?’
‘A laugh a minute. You know Barry Cayle?’
‘Yes, I think we all know Mr Cayle, at least by reputation.’ There was a heavy pause; then the Press Attaché, a fastidious little man called Giles, cleared his throat and said: ‘I think, perhaps, there has been a failure of communication somewhere. A few days ago, Mr Cayle, we were informed through London that the Soviet authorities had declared you persona non grata.’
Cayle chuckled. ‘Then there must, as you say, have been a failure in communication. Only why was London so interested? I mean, I know you still believe in looking after your ex-colonials, but I wouldn’t want Whitehall to overwork themselves on my behalf.’ As he spoke, he glanced at Hann. Everything about him was statutory FO: pinhead worsted suit with three tips of white handkerchief, flat gold cufflinks, small square watch by Patek Phillipe. Only his eyes were remarkable; they were grey, cold and oily. Cayle had seen the man before. He was certain of it now.
The First Secretary said, with a light laugh: ‘I’m quite sure that you can look after yourself. It’s merely that as representative of a leading British newspaper, it could — as I’m sure you’ll agree — be potentially embarrassing to Her Majesty’s Government if you were to find yourself in any difficulties with the Soviet authorities.’ He inclined his head. ‘But of course, I speak as someone who is not privileged to know all the motives that your editor had in sending you to Moscow. This is your second visit in just over a week, isn’t it?’
‘Right.’
‘They’re keeping you busy, Mr Cayle.’ It was Hann who spoke, in a controlled, impassive voice. ‘What is it this time?’ he added, with a discreet veneer of insult: ‘Another big in-depth exposé?’
Cayle stared over Hann’s sleek head, at the rostrum where Pol was pumping hands under the glare of flashlights. ‘I don’t know about an exposé,’ he said, ‘unless you’re thinking about something that happened a long time ago? About thirteen years ago, to be exact.’
‘I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about, Mr — I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Cayle. Barry Cayle.’ Bad move, he thought: professional diplomats don’t forget names at official receptions. He smiled down at Hann’s drink; it was a pale whisky. ‘Keeping off the vodka, eh, Mr Hann? Very sensible! The real stuff can be pretty fierce. What someone we used to know in Beirut calls “Russkie snakebite”.’
Hann didn’t move; and his eyes had that same dead oily look as when he’d marched Kim Philby out of the hotel bar in Beirut all those years back. The First Secretary had turned to greet an elderly American couple and Cayle heard Giles unctuously agreeing to make up a bridge party. Frank Smollett’s glass was empty and he prowled away in search of a waiter. Cayle was alone with Hann.
‘You didn’t tell the truth just now, Mr Cayle.’ There was no accusation in his voice; it was a statement of fact. Cayle said nothing, and Hann continued: ‘I’d be interested to know, off the record, how you managed it. Slipping in without a visa, I mean. That sort of thing is rather difficult in Russia.’
‘A lot of things are more difficult in Russia than getting a legitimate three-day visa from Aeroflot when you’re in transit.’
‘In transit for three days, eh?’ Hann allowed himself a slight white smile. ‘And how did you manage to get yourself invited here?’
‘That nice Madame Goncharova, at the Press Department of the Foreign Ministry — I called on her this afternoon and showed her a couple of letters, from my editor and my embassy in London, and hey presto! a lovely gilt-edged invitation.’
‘You’re sailing pretty close to the wind, aren’t you?’ said Hann. ‘I’d say we both are. Have you talked again to your fat chum up there yet?’ He nodded towards the distant rostrum where there was a dense crowd, still illuminated by the flash of cameras.
‘One doesn’t get a lot of time to talk to people at these sort of functions,’ Hann said tonelessly. ‘What about you? Have you any particular interest in this Troika-Caravelle project?’
‘I might have. Or rather, somebody else thinks I might have.’
Hann gave a little cough and put a finger to his old Harrovian tie. ‘It’s rather crowded here. Let’s try and find somewhere a little quieter.’ He began to lead Cayle towards the
