He had watched the “looker’s” cottage being cleared out and furnished and wondered why a man would go to so much trouble when he only used the place at weekends and once or twice a month on weekdays just for the night. Slowly he changed his opinion of the man who was always so amiable and who frequently brought him a few bottles of beer. Two or three times on Saturday nights the man walked over to the farmhouse and chatted with him in the kitchen. He couldn’t remember how they’d got on to the subject of girls and sex. From the way the man talked he obviously expected that Hipcress had a girl now and again. He seemed amazed when Hipcress said that he’d never been able to find a girl to oblige him that way.
The following weekend the man had shown him photographs of two girls and asked him which he liked best. Albert Hipcress studied the two photographs as carefully as if he were judging the Miss World contest and finally pointed at the picture of the young blonde. The man smiled. “You’ve got a good eye for a girl, Albert. She’s a real goer that one.” He looked at the farmer, “She’s a friend of mine. How about I fix for her to come down with me in the week and give you a nice time?” Albert Hipcress was torn between the embarrassment of letting an outsider know his innermost thoughts and his desire for the girl. “Just try her, Albert. I’d like to know what you think of her.” Albert Hipcress put up only token resistance and it was obvious that he was eager to take advantage of the man’s offer.
Twice a month the girl had been brought down to the farmhouse. It cost Hipcress nothing and he was an enthusiastic and willing learner. When a visit was due, his mind as he worked around the farm was obsessed by thoughts of what they would do on the ramshackle bed in his room upstairs. His tenant never asked him if he liked the sessions with the girl and he never mentioned them himself. But he wondered how the man persuaded the girl to do it. He guessed it must be money. It wasn’t the man’s looks. His face had not even one good feature and his sallow complexion was especially unattractive. His eyes were always half-closed as if he was watching carefully; his nose was shapeless and his small mouth was mean. When Hipcress had asked him what he did he’d said he was a businessman but he didn’t say what business he was in. Most men would have wondered why, if it was money that made it possible, a stranger should spend money on him. But Albert Hipcress never wondered what the man’s motive might be.
13
When the reception clerk phoned through to Joe Kimber he listened with no great interest. At least once a week some nutter came to the US Embassy in Paris, offering the innermost secrets of the Politburo or his services to the CIA.
“Can he hear you talking to me now?”
“No. I’ve shoved him in the annexe.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Pretty rough. Tensed up and tanked up.”
“Did he speak French or English?”
“English. But real bad English. A heavy accent.”
“Tell me again what he said?”
“He said he was an officer in the KGB. He’d just come from his assignment in the US and he wants to defect.”
Kimber sighed. “OK. I’d better have a look at him. Tell one of the guards to bring him in.” He cleared everything off his desk except the two telephones and drew the curtains over the map on the wall. He didn’t get up from his desk when the Marine brought in the visitor. He pointed to the single chair.
“Sit down, Mister … I didn’t get your name.”
The man shrugged. “Is Maki or Hayhanen—whichever you like.”
The American smiled. “Which one do you like?”
“My real name is Hayhanen but I use Maki name in New York.”
“Tell me about New York.”
“I work there for KGB.”
“So what are you doing in Paris?”
“I was recalled by Moscow. I don’t wish to go. I am afraid.”
“Why are you afraid?”
“I think they discipline me. Punish me.”
“Why should they do that?”
“I don’t know. I think the man in New York gives bad report on me.”
“Which man is that?”
“Is two men. Sivrin at United Nations and an older man named Mark. He never liked me from the beginning.”
“Why not?”
“He was old-fashioned. No friendliness. Just orders. All the time he criticise everything I do.”
“And who is this Mark fellow?”
“He is top illegal in United States.”
“Where did you have meetings with him?”
“All over. Central Park; RKO Keith’s Theatre in Flushing, a cinema; Riverside Park; a place on Bergen Street in Newark.” He paused and shrugged. “Many places.”
“What nationality are you?”
“Russian-Finnish.”
“You speak Russian?”
“Of course.”
“What about Sivrin?”
“I work at first for Sivrin. Then Mark.”
“Where did you meet Sivrin?”
“Was not much meeting—was mainly drops.”
“Where were the drops?”
“A hole in the wall in Jerome Avenue in the Bronx, a bridge over a path in Central Park and a lamp-post in Fort Tryon Park.”
“What was your address in New York?”
“We’ve got a cottage at Peekskill.”
“You mean Peekskill up the Hudson?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s we?”
“I don’t understand?”
“You said we’ve got a cottage. Who else is involved?”
“Just my wife. She lives there with me.”
“You mean she’s still living there?”
“Of course.”
Kimber sat looking at his visitor, uncertain how to deal with him. He needed to check on at least some of the items in his story before he decided what to do with him. It was such a ragbag of a story but it had that faint smell of truth. There was one fact
