There was a long wait on the ground before they disembarked, and as Kretski walked across the tarmac the snow was swirling and already thick on the ground.
As he gave up his boarding card at the desk two men walked out from behind the metal screen. He didn’t know them but he knew instantly that they were KGB. The older man said in Russian, “Mr. Kretski, I’d like you to come to my office.”
“What’s the problem, comrade?”
The man smiled. “No problem at all.” He nodded towards the white-walled corridor and the smaller man led the way, opening a door at the far end. And Kretski noticed the security locks and the bars on the windows.
The older man pointed to a plain wooden chair by the small bare table and drew up a similar chair on the other side. Kretski was aware that the second man was leaning back against the door, lighting a cigar.
“My name is Pomerenko, Comrade Kretski. Would you prefer to talk in Russian or Polish?”
Kretski shrugged. “It’s up to you.”
“You are Jan Kretski, yes?”
“Correct.”
“Deputy chief liaison officer between KGB and Polish Z-1?”
“That’s right.”
“And you must know why you are here?”
“Not until you tell me, comrade.”
“Maybe it would be easier for you if we spoke English.”
“I can speak English if you prefer it.”
Pomerenko smiled. “I am KGB, Comrade Colonel. Directorate Four. You have been under surveillance for two months and two days. And you are now under arrest.”
“On what charges, may I ask?”
Pomerenko leaned back slowly, his hand reaching into an inside pocket, taking out an envelope, looking at it for a moment before he pulled out a photograph and laid it, facing Kretski on the table.
“Tell me, comrade—who is that?”
It was a grainy black-and-white photograph, obviously blown up from the original, but he knew all right who it was. He wondered who had taken it, and when. He could just make out the archway at the back of Horse Guards Parade. He made sure that his hand didn’t shake as he put the photograph back on the table.
“Who is it, Comrade Kretski?” Pomerenko said softly.
“You tell me.”
Pomerenko pointed. “The name is on the back—look at it.”
As Kretski leaned forward for the photograph Pomerenko clamped his big paw down on Kretski’s hand.
“You looked very pleased with yourself that day in the sunshine, didn’t you?”
Pomerenko released Kretski’s hand and as he turned over the photograph Kretski leaned forward. There was a typed label on the back. Just two lines in Cyrillic script.
Captain John Summers. Intelligence Corps.
10350556. See file D4/9074/GB/ 94–105.
Kretski looked up at Pomerenko. “I don’t understand.”
Pomerenko laughed. “It’s taken a long time, comrade.” He looked at his watch. “We’d better go.”
They had taken his briefcase and in the black Chaika that took them back to Moscow nobody spoke a word.
He sat with his eyes closed, his head resting back on the seat and only stirred as they swept into Dzerzhinski Square.
18
“Tell us about the Malta convoys, Harry.”
The group of men were grinning but Harry Houghton had turned to call for another pint. When it came he turned towards them, glass in hand.
“It was air-cover that was the problem in the Med. We was doing double watches on the guns. Officers and men all had …”
“What guns were they, Harry?”
“Oerlikons. Twin turrets fore and aft. We had DEMS gunners. When we got to Valletta they had the Royal Marines band lined up on the harbour to play us in. ‘White Cliffs of Dover’ they played and ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ ”
“I thought you said last time that it was the Black Watch played you in. A piper and ‘Flowers of the Forest.’ ”
“That was another time, Lofty.”
“Tell us about the Maltese girls, Harry. When you went to the party the day you tied up.”
“They were fantastic those Maltese birds. You had to watch your step, mind you. Try it on the wrong one and you’d have her brothers sticking knives in you. But there was girls. Kids of fourteen and fifteen, real pretty ones. You could have ’em all night for a quid. But if you came in on the relief convoys it was all free. We was heroes to those poor bastards. Starving they was and we brought the food to them through thick and thin. I went to this party and Jesus they were all over me. Took me in the back room. Two of ’em. We was at it all night.”
The men laughed and one of them said, “Have another pint on me, Harry, you old bullshitter.”
“I’m not bullshitting, I swear. You ask the others.”
“What others?”
“The lads on the Malta convoys. They didn’t give Malta the George Cross for nothing, mate.”
The man grinned. “And no bloody sailor ever got it for free off of a Maltese bird neither.”
Houghton grinned. “Depends on who you are, mate. Anyway, I gotta be on my way.”
“Your divorce come through yet, Harry?”
“Two months ago, skipper. Foot-loose and fancy free. That’s me.”
As he stood outside the pub he turned up his coat collar. It was beginning to snow. He put his head down and walked down the empty promenade. He could hear the waves crashing slowly and heavily on the shingle on the beach. The wind caught his face as he turned into a side road, and five minutes later he passed the permanently open gates to the plot of waste land where his trailer was parked.
He pulled out his keys and turned towards the faint light from the street lamps to sort out the key to the trailer door. He turned to
