The VIP lounge in the International Terminal was packed and noisy. At around three o’clock fleets of official cars began drawing up outside; and at 3.20 there was a flutter of interest as the Troika-Caravelle prototype crept into view, escorted by uniformed outriders who snarled in and out under the wings and round the stout silver fuselage.
There were a few late arrivals from the Press, who had evaded the official coach-tour from the Europeiiski Hotel and made their way in their own cars or by taxi. One of them, a plump raddled-faced man in a greasy musquash hat, had come sensibly equipped with a hip-flask.
At 3.30 there was more mild excitement as a short, very fat bearded man in a vicuna coat stepped forward and introduced himself to the cameras as M. Charles Pol, the French entrepreneur responsible for the Troika-Caravelle deal; and at 3.45 the loudspeaker began to crackle out boarding instructions in Russian, French and English. The embarkation was a wearisome affair, with two Frontier Police scrutinizing all passes once again. The only formality that had been dispensed with was the searching of hand luggage, which in this case consisted entirely of camera equipment, belonging mostly to the French contingent.
Charles Pol was the last to board the plane, waddling across the tarmac and up the embarkation steps, with the little Russian girl in the white mink hat trotting at his side, carrying his briefcase. He lowered himself into a reserved seat at the back of the plane, while the girl walked slowly up the aisle, glancing along each of the rows of triple seats. She passed the raddled-faced journalist with the hip-flask, who was now taking a long drink. He looked as though he needed it: his hands shook and his eyes were watering from the cold. She gave him a quick smile, and he lowered the flask and nodded. Beside him, the American in the yellow gaberdine suit said, ‘Miss, when do we get the champagne?’
‘Refreshments will be served when we are in the air,’ she replied, and walked on, no longer looking along the seats, until she reached the head of the plane where she switched on the cabin intercom. ‘Gospoda!’ she announced: ‘Mesdames et messieurs. Ladies and gentlemen.’ She translated into the three languages: ‘Welcome aboard this inaugural flight of Troika-Caravelle One-One-Two, an aircraft which testifies to the combined skill and friendship existing between the French Republic and the Union of the Soviet Socialist Republics. Our pilots are Captain O. D. Prokovsky and Capitaine J. P. Duhamel —’ She then began reading from the handout, translating each paragraph into the three languages, in the same passionless voice that she’d used on the coach.
The plane was a long-range twin-jet, with a high payload against a low fuel consumption, and a short landing capability, making it ideal for internal Soviet air-routes. It was also highly manoeuvrable at low altitudes, which recommended it as a radar-hopping military transport — though this secondary advantage was not mentioned in the handout, or by the girl. She concluded by announcing that the flight would last fifty minutes, heading due west over the Gulf of Finland, then south over the city of Tallinn and back along the coast of Estonia to Leningrad.
The fact that the aircraft bore no markings nor national emblem aroused no particular interest. Indeed, most of the journalists had written their copy before leaving the hotel.
Five minutes after take-off, with Kronstadt rising like a grey bubble out of the flat mist of water seven miles below, a couple of Russian airhostesses came down the aisle with trays of pâté de foie gras sandwiches and glasses of French champagne. In a gangway seat half-way down, the raddled-faced journalist had taken out his hipflask again and poured it into his glass. The American in the gaberdine suit smiled approvingly: ‘That’s something every working journalist in Russia should carry, like a soldier carries a gun. What is it? Brandy?’
The man nodded and offered him the flask.
‘Just a sniff,’ said the American. ‘Brandy and champagne give me heartburn. I’m more of a whisky man myself. Name’s Roskoe,’ he added. ‘Ken Roskoe, Atlantic Syndicated News. I don’t think we’ve met?’
‘Fielding,’ said the man, putting away the flask.
‘You’re British?’
The man hesitated, as though with a slight impediment of speech. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Which paper?’
‘The Observer.’
‘The London Observer?’
Fielding nodded and sipped his champagne cocktail.
‘Don’t the Observer have another man out here?’ said Roskoe. ‘I’ve run into him a couple of times. Kind of studious type — speaks very good Russian.’
‘I’m freelancing,’ Fielding said carefully: ‘For a supplement on air travel.’ The loudspeaker broke in with the Russian girl’s voice telling them that they were now approaching the narrowest point of the Gulf of Finland where the coast could be seen on both sides. They were flying at an altitude of 12,000 metres, at an air-speed of 800 kilometres an hour.
‘I just wish they’d cut that crap!’ Roskoe muttered. ‘Show us a film or let us sleep — that’s the way I like to travel.’ But Fielding seemed already to have taken him at his word: he had finished his drink, tilted his seat back and closed his eyes. His foie gras sandwiches lay untouched on the tray in front of him.
At the back of the plane, across the aisle from the little Russian girl, Pol was beginning to sweat, despite the ample air-conditioning. Ten minutes later a tall blond man with a camera-case slung over his shoulder got up and walked leisurely up the aisle, through the curtain leading to the forward cabin.
The Russian pilot was at the controls, leaning back against the headrest and watching the dark-blue horizon ahead. Beside him, the French co-pilot sat smoking and chatting to the interpreter in the jump-seat behind. Both pilots had their earphones hanging loose round their necks. The interpreter
