“OK. I will. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, my friend. Happy Christmas.”
At two o’clock in the morning on the third day after Christmas there was very little traffic on the road from Brunswick to Helmstedt but the police had put barriers across the road half a mile before the check-point, and they were guarded by a platoon of the Black Watch and two Field Security officers.
Lights blazed on both sides of the check-point, and on the West German side the big black Mercedes stood with its engine running to keep the occupants warm. When a torch flashed twice on the far side of the striped poles Nolan got out of the car and walked slowly to the check-point. From the other side a man in a heavy coat and astrakhan hat walked forward so that they met each side of the barrier.
Nolan spoke first. “Pa-Russki eta karta?”
And the reply came. “Nyet. Pa-Russki eta reka.”
The red and white pole was lifted, and Nolan escorted the Russian to the car. He opened the door and the Russian bent to look inside at the passenger, his breath clouding in the cold night air. He closed the door and nodded to Nolan who walked with him across the check-point, past the second barrier to a Black Zil. The Russian opened the rear door.
She was prettier than he had expected but the big brown eyes looked apprehensive. The young girl in her silver fox furs was asleep in her mother’s arms. Kowalski’s face still showed the bruises and there was a suppurating scar from his eye to his ear. Nolan closed the door and straightened up.
In silence the two of them walked back to the guardhouse and raised their arms.
Kleppe got out awkwardly and walked with his hands in his coat pockets towards the Russian, who grinned and shook his hand.
Kowalski was carrying the child, and Halenka Tcharkova walked solemnly beside him.
When they had crossed into their respective zones the barriers came down. The KGB man and Nolan shook hands and walked back to their cars.
Dempsey was waiting at the old-fashioned house off Husaren Strasse. He was standing with Anders at the open door, shivering with anxiety despite his warm clothes.
When he saw the girl they stood facing each other, Dempsey was speechless. He just stood looking at her until she put out her arms. He clung to her, his head on her shoulder until Nolan led them both inside.
It was three hours later when Nolan stood at his bedroom window unbuttoning his shirt. There was a British Army platoon guarding the house, and Nolan couldn’t help contrasting the present heavy protection with the Paris embassy’s indifference all those years ago. His tired brain tried to recall the words of a poem he had once heard.
“For the want of a nail a shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe a horse was lost
For want of a horse a battle was lost.
For the loss of a battle a king was lost.”
He turned away from the window and lifted his jacket off the back of a chair. He wanted to get his mind off the whole damn thing. What he wanted was a girl. He fished out the small, brown leather book, and checked a number. He held it in his hand as he lifted the receiver. He had dialled two numbers when he stopped. He stood silently for a moment then said, “Shit,” jiggled the telephone to get the unit operator, and said “Sergeant, get Mrs. Sally Nolan, Washington 947210, person to person.”
He was asleep when the call came through, and it rang for four minutes before the operator gave up.
She was really rather young for MacKay, but she was so deliciously pretty. He had laid siege to her for ten days and that evening he had been crowned with success.
With a bottle of Mouton Cadet 1971 they watched a re-run of Love Story on TV. And after that poignant reminder that life is short and pleasures fleeting, she slid off her tight sweater and stepped out of her skirt, so that as he sat on the divan she stood in front of him naked, except for her tan coloured nylon stockings, and a small white suspender belt.
She smiled indulgently as he looked at the long slim legs, the neat black bush, the flat young belly, and she leaned forward as he looked at her full firm breasts. His eyes moved to her pretty face when the words distracted him on ITN’s News at Ten.
“… do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute …”
And only for a second or two did his eyes wander to the screen where a tall man in a dark suit stood with his hand on a Bible, in front of Chief Justice Elliot. But it was a second too long, and he heard her say, “That is the bloody limit.” And that, I am sorry to say, was that. It was Monday the twentieth of January.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ted Allbeury was a lieutenant-colonel in the British Intelligence Corps during World War II, and later a successful executive in the fields of marketing, advertising and radio. He began his writing career in the early 1970s and became well known for his espionage novels, but also published one highly-praised general novel, The Choice, and a short story collection, Other Kinds of Treason. His novels have been published in twenty-three languages, including Russian. He died on 4th December 2005.
