The meeting between Volnov and Gavrilov about the man who had used the name of Gordon Lonsdale took place in a dacha about ten miles east of Moscow. It was held at the dacha, not for any security reason but merely because Volnov didn’t want to spoil his weekend in the country. He was in his sixties and he didn’t like his routine being disturbed. Especially for a man he positively disliked. Gavrilov too disliked Lonsdale but he was stuck with the responsibility of deciding what should be done with him. He sensed that his compromise proposal was not going to be acceptable to the older man. But he could see no alternative that would be tolerable to those who wanted Lonsdale to be given public honours.
Volnov folded his arms and leaned back against the cushions on the couch.
“Why all the fuss about the man? He was never in danger. The worst that could happen to him was a prison sentence. We exchanged him for the Englishman Lynne or Wynne, whatever his name was. He’s back here without a hair of his head disturbed. So why the circus?”
“He did a good job for us.”
“Rubbish. The fool was caught. His network in London was handed to him on a plate from Moscow. He was just a glorified messenger-boy.”
“It would help him with his family problems.”
“That woman’s right—his wife. I saw all that translation of the English newspapers. ‘I was spy’s mistress says Natasha something or other.’ ” His face was flushed as he looked at Gavrilov. “All those foreign whores he slept with. She should be allowed to divorce him if that’s what she wants.”
“Then we have another scandal on our hands.”
“No need to announce it. It can be kept quiet. You can warn the woman not to talk.”
“It’s not as easy as that, Comrade Volnov.”
“Why not?”
“It would be bad for the morale of others we send overseas if we didn’t support Konrad Molody.”
“Let it be a lesson to them. Don’t screw foreign tarts. They expect their wives to be faithful but they live like brothel-keepers themselves.”
“The woman herself did not live an entirely blameless life while he was away.”
“So. Let them stew in their own juice, the two of them.”
“The naval intelligence people were very pleased with what he sent back.”
“So. It was the others who took the risks. The Cohens and the English couple. They did the work and they’re still in jail. Molody just passed it on.”
“That’s all that most of them do.”
“Rubbish.” He paused. “Anyway, what is it you want to do?”
“I’ve suggested that he writes a book. An autobiography. In English so that it can be sold in the West.”
“For what purpose?”
“So that the English and American public can see how inefficient their intelligence services are.”
“They don’t give a damn one way or another.”
“The propaganda section say that it could cause a lot of embarrassment for London and Washington.”
“And Molody is the master-spy who deceives them all. The gallant hero.”
“Of course.”
“And that would keep him happy? And feed his ego?”
“Yes. We should control every word of it of course.”
Volnov shrugged, impatiently. “Do it then, if that’s what you want. But mark my words. There are to be no flags and no heroics in Moscow for Molody.”
“Right, comrade.”
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself, Gavrilov. You’re wasting your time bothering with that arrogant little kulak.”
Reino Hayhanen died in an unexplained car-crash on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
Joe Shapiro bought a cottage in Northumberland. Near Bamburgh, within sight of the sea and within easy walking distance of the long sandy beaches. Except for a few weeks in summer the beautiful beaches were deserted and Shapiro and his son walked daily along the coast in all kinds of weather.
Shapiro had chosen that part of the world because he wanted to be away from people. Sir Peter had arranged for medical treatment for John Summers by a Newcastle doctor who was ex-Special Operations Executive and whose discretion could be trusted. He had not been told everything, but enough to understand the background of the man he was treating. When it was impossible to avoid contact with local people they were told that John Summers was a polio victim, an explanation that was readily accepted.
As the months went by the nightmares were less frequent but there was no improvement in speech or hearing. At a two-day check-up just before the Easter holiday Shapiro was told that tests showed that there was a strong indication that his son could now definitely hear sounds at certain frequencies. But what had seemed like good news was dashed by the consultant’s opinion that the tests also indicated that there was no likelihood of John Summers ever recognising speech. There appeared to be some gap in the nervous system that meant that while the ear itself reacted to certain sounds there was no link to the brain itself, and therefore no recognition of the sounds. Although it was cautiously and considerately put it was made clear that Shapiro could expect no improvement. He would best accept that his son’s life would continue to be physically normal but mentally retarded.
Shapiro’s life was devoted entirely to his son. A life of routine drudgery as nurse, guardian and housekeeper that he bore with a stoicism that was a mixture of irrational guilt and resignation, and a genuine affection for the human being who had been so ruthlessly destroyed by evil men. There were times when his spirit flagged and he classed himself as
