'You'll not have much to tell them, Mr Mawby. I suppose his Foreign Ministry material is marginally interesting.'
'It's boring, uninformed and not new.'
'We were very thorough, the fellow you sent down here and me, the fellow with armour and missiles and warheads sprouting from eyes, ears, God knows where else. Very thorough, but the boy just stone-walled us.
'My father doesn't talk about his work', that's the hub of it, and the boy's sticking to it.'
'I'm going to put the rod across his back, Henry.'
Carter sighed. It was against all the precepts of a debrief that you hurry. 'If that's what you think right, Mr Mawby.'
'The rod across his back.' The fleck of daisies in the lawn brought a tremor of irritation to Mawby's mouth. The weeds in the rose beds buckled his lips in annoyance. 'It's a damned shame they can't keep these places the way they used to be able to. When I first came here there were a couple of gardeners full time, absolute picture the place was, really rather a pleasure to be here for a few days. Bloody mess now… Get him up, Henry, get him out of his bed, and we'll have another go.'
Mawby swung on his heel, gouged a muddy smear in the wet grass, flailed the insects besieging his face, frightened the chaffinches into flight.
'I'll do that, Mr Mawby,' said Carter.
From the darkened outline of the house a light burned in a window set under the eaves. That's where the boy would be, Carter thought, probably dressed, probably gazing at the wall, probably close to tears because of failure to please and win approval. He'd be sitting there moping the time away till lie was ready for sleep. Even odds, if he could turn the clock back, he'd be heading for Geneva and then the Aeroflot to Moscow. But Willi Guttmann was wanted as a jewel for Charles Mawby and had been offered as a subject for consideration by the Joint Intelligence Committee in the morning.
'Bad luck, young Willi,' Carter said quietly to himself. ''I think you jumped the wrong way.'
The Ambassador who was the Permanent Representative of the Soviet Union at the Conference for the Committee on Disarmament sat in a comfortable chair close to the woodfire. He had not asked the KGB officer to be seated. As a career diplomat he had no love for the security man whose job entitled him to wander roughshod across the protocol and rank of the delegation.
'I cannot see any mystery in this matter,' the Ambassador said.
'I have not spoken of mystery,' Valeri Sharygin said. 'I have said only that it was extraordinary for Guttmann to go to the lake on such a night, in such weather. For an experienced sailor it was peculiar behaviour.'
'Perhaps he had been working hard, was taking what opportunity was presented to him.'
'His job was the least demanding of any here. You know the position of his father?'
'I have read Guttmann's file. I don't remember anything exceptional.'
'In the area of military technology, research and development, his father is a man of considerable stature, an Honoured Scientist of our country although of German origin.'
'Where are you taking me?'
'I don't know, Comrade Ambassador, but by now there should have been a body. In two days I have to return to Moscow… I will be asked many questions…'
'Are you saying that the boy wasn't drowned?'
'Perhaps there was an accident. Perhaps the boy took his own life for reasons that we do not know. Perhaps we have been deceived.'
'The suspicion you can manufacture is a credit to you.'
'Thank you, Comrade Ambassador. I apologise for having disturbed you.'
Valeri Sharygin returned to his bedroom in the newly built annexe across the compound from the main building of the Residence. Beside his bed was the locked suitcase containing the wordly possessions of Willi Guttmann.
George had come for him. Willi had been sitting on his bed, shoes and socks off, shirt unbuttoned to the waist. No knock at the door, just the flooding impact of the frame of the minder in the doorway, and the summons for him to make himself decent again because he was wanted below. They had never called for him in the evening before. Always a morning session and another after lunch, and then supper with George watching over him and then his bedroom. George was perpetually with him in the house. When they walked in the corridors George was there.
When he went to the lavatory George seemed to stop reluctantly at the door and when the business was finished and the bolt withdrawn he would be waiting. George was the one who brought him a mug of tea in the morning, and took him to his room in the evening and wished him good night and asked him whether he had everything, when he had nothing. George with his jacket buttoned and whose left breast pocket was bulged and distorted. He was a captive, and his freedom to be with Lizzie must be bartered. He knew that the currency he offered was stale and not valued.
George ushered the boy into the ground floor room that was bare of ornaments and pictures and comfort. Thin hair- cord carpet. Thin cotton curtains. One wooden table and half a dozen upright wooden chairs.
Carter was sitting at the table, hands clasped, face impassive not meeting his eyes. There was another man there, shorter, younger in his shirt sleeves and with his tie loosened. Instantly menacing, wide and aggressive eyes.
'You'd better sit down, Guttmann. I've come from London because we're not happy with you, not happy at all with the help that you've given Mr Carter.'
''I've done my best. Mr Carter will tell you…'
'Then your best has got to get better.' Mawby had his elbows on the table, his full and close shaved chin in his hands.
' I have told you everything that I can.' Willi was defiant, surprised at his bravery. 'I told Mr Carter everything about the working of the delegation…'
'And for that do you think we sent a man to Geneva to help you?
We've brought you to this place for that drivel, you believe that?'
'I want to be with Lizzie, that's why I came.'
A slow smile from Mawby. 'Lizzie's a long way off for you, Guttmann. She's light years distant, and unless you're talking to us the gap stays open.'
From an inside pocket Mawby took a postcard sized photograph, glanced at it and then tossed it onto the table where Willi could see it.
The boy recoiled. The same picture that was in an album at home. Four men in a line together with their arms around each other's shoulders; one was taller than his companions and had a face wrapped in privacy, not wearing the bold grin of the others. 'Lubeck, January 1945. Your father making warheads for the Nazis. Otto Wilhelm Guttmann. Born in Magdeburg in 1912. Expert in short range missiles. Taken to the Soviet Union in 1945. Married Valentina Efremov Guttmann, killed in a car accident in 1968…' Mawby reeled off the information, referred to no notes… 'One daughter, Erica. One son, Willi. Technical Director of Research at Padolsk for the last seven years. Expert now in MCLOS, that's Manual Controlled Line of Sight. Developing the successor to the AAICV, we call it Sagger over here. That's what we brought you here for,
Guttmann. That's what we've got to be talking about if you're to find yourself between Lizzie Forsyth's thighs again.'
'Bastard.'
'Good boy, Willi. Now you're understanding me,' Mawby chuckled with satisfaction.
For four hours, with Mawby wielding the pickaxe and Carter handling the scalpel, they kept at him, dogs in a pit with a dying bear. Willi shouting and Willi whimpering, alternating courage and submission. A bright light in his face, the rattle of the questions from behind its beam, and never the answer that they sought.
'My father didn't bring work home to the flat.'
'At home he hardly ever talked of Padolsk.'
'If he had to work then he had a room in the flat where he would go.
Right from the time I was a child I was never invited into that room.'
'When I disturbed him and he was working, then he was angry. I didn't do it.'
'He never spoke of difficulties and solutions.'
