Shadow of Shadows Page 4

  Petrov smiled. ‘You’re just prejudiced, Jimmy. How was he a bastard?’

  ‘You ought to be able to tell me. Haven’t you read about him? Didn’t you have lectures about him?’

  ‘Of course, but you can’t imagine the Politburo allowing anything to be said which criticized him or his life.’

  ‘All his life he lived on money squeezed out of other people. His father, his mother, Engels, anybody he could plead poverty to.’

  ‘That’s nothing. He lived in poverty.’

  ‘Rubbish. The poverty was because he spent money like a drunken sailor. He had various inheritances that could have kept his family for years but he always moved to a better house and the money went in weeks. When Engels was just a salesman and lived very frugally he sent Marx money every week. He got no thanks for it. When Engels became well-off in his old age Marx got seven thousand marks a year from him. He had at least a hundred and fifty thousand marks from Engels. His father even borrowed money to send to him.’

  ‘OK, he was bad with money.’

  ‘He was bad with people too.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His wife. He ruined her health and gave her a dog’s life. He had an illegitimate son by their maid whom he refused to acknowledge and left everybody with the impression that it was Engels’s son.’

  ‘So what was he good at?’

  ‘He was a historian. A historian of capitalism. Nothing more.’

  ‘But he worked hard at all that.’

  ‘OK. He worked hard, but he didn’t do any good for humanity, or the Russians.’

  ‘There were rumours in Moscow that Shakespeare was homosexual. What do you think? Is it possible?’

  Lawler laughed. ‘You can’t even things up by making Shakespeare a queer. Nobody knows. There are theories that the sonnets were written to men not women. But scholars are always putting two and two together and making five.’

  ‘If somebody could prove that he was homosexual what would happen?’

  ‘He’d sell it to the Sunday Times or the Observer for fifteen thousand. He’d write a book. It would be in all the papers and a couple of weeks later it would have been forgotten. Come on, it’s getting cool. We’d better get back to the hotel.’

  The walk seemed to have done Petrov some good. He was so relaxed and talkative that in his bedroom after dinner that night Lawler took the plunge.

  ‘Are you still worried about me, Tolya?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Like you said the other night, that I might do you some harm.’

  Petrov took a sip of his whisky and said softly, ‘I’ve not made up my mind. You could be waiting until you get your orders.’

  ‘Do I look like a killer?’

  ‘No. But killers seldom do look like killers outside the KGB.’

  ‘Do you miss the Soviet Union?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘What do you miss?’

  ‘Russia.’

  ‘What in particular?’

  ‘The first time I realized that I was homesick was a few weeks back at a football match. It was just a friendly match. Arsenal versus Moscow Dynamo. My lot won.’

  ‘Which is your lot?’

  Petrov smiled. ‘Exactly. That’s what made me homesick. Dynamo won. But I realized they weren’t mine anymore. I cried in the taxi on the way home. Not for a football team, but for silver birches and Leningrad, vodka and zakuski, and God knows what else. Not that any of it is better than what you have here, but just that those things are in my blood. In Moscow I didn’t have to work things out. I knew the rules. They’re like the weather or breathing. I was used to them. In a way I lived in a very small pond, a privileged pond maybe; but here, I’m swimming in an ocean. I have lots of new freedoms but all the same I’m a prisoner. In Moscow I had almost no freedoms, but I did not feel a prisoner.’ Petrov smiled. ‘When all are prisoners the jailers are free men.’

  ‘What could we do to make you happier, Tolya?’

  ‘Stop asking me questions about KGB.’

  ‘Silvester thought that you were quite happy to cooperate.’

  ‘I was, but not now.’

  ‘Tell me why.’

  ‘You remember story of Scheherazade? She tells a story every night to delay her execution.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I realize one day that I am Scheherazade, and before very long I have no more stories left. And then . . .’Petrov smashed one hand into the palm of the other.

  ‘What suddenly made you think that?’

  ‘My information about KGB operations in UK and United States is very useful to your people. They want it all very much. But what I know is like toothpaste in a tube. The tube starts full and fat, then day by day a little more is squeezed out. It takes a long time but one day the tube is empty and flat. And then it’s thrown away.’ The brown eyes looked at Lawler. ‘I want to keep some paste in the tube. I don’t want to be thrown away. The paste left in the tube is my insurance policy. It’s what Silvester and the others want most. It’s what KGB were doing in last two years and what they are doing now. So I decide not to talk so easily, so quickly.’

  ‘But when you’ve brought them up to date you’ll be looked after. A place to live. A pension, or a job. You’ll be secure.’

  Petrov smiled. ‘Either you are very innocent, my friend, or you see me as a fool. What security is there for me?’ He shrugged with his hands wide apart.

  ‘I’m sure Silvester would give you a lump sum of money right now, and more when you have brought them up to date.’

  ‘You are capitalist, James. You think money is security. I was KGB. For me security is being alive. You cannot guarantee that, neither can Silvester.’

  ‘What made you decide to stop co-operating, Tolya?’

  ‘I already told you.’

  ‘No. You don’t understand. One day you were co-operating and the next day you decided not to. Why that particular day?’

  ‘Because on that day I realize my position.’

  ‘But why on that particular day? Why not the day before, or the day after?’

  Petrov’s eyes looked keenly at him and then the Russian shook his head.

  ‘That’s part of my insurance too.’

  Lawler stood up. ‘It’s time we went to bed, Tolya.’ Petrov nodded. Then, smiling, he said, ‘Is there girls to find in this town?’

  ‘You mean tarts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lawler laughed. ‘There’s bound to be somebody who obliges the locals but you’d have to live here for months to find out who. You’d better save yourself for tomorrow night with Siobhan.’

  ‘Is OK she stay with me at your place?’

  ‘Sure. Unless you’d rather go to Ebury Street,’

  ‘No. Is OK at your place if you agree.’

  ‘Of course I agree. By the way, where did you meet her?’

  ‘She was with another girl in pub — “Bricklayer’s Arms”. I talk to them and make date with Siobhan.’

  ‘What does she do for a living?’

  ‘She is actress in TV commercials. Earns good money when there are jobs. I think maybe she also get money from her family.’

  ‘Sleep well.’

  ‘And you.’

  The next day Lawler took Petrov to see Anne Hathaway’s Cottage. They walked there and back, and had an early lunch. They were coming off the Ml at Hendon by four o’clock.

  Lawler dropped Petrov at the girl’s place and then drove back to the King’s Road. There were a few letters on the mat and he picked them up without looking at them. He dialled the number for Cooper who transferred him to Silvester.

  ‘What news, James?’

  ‘It’s going slowly, Adam. I think that’s inevitable in the circumstances.’

  ‘What circumstances?’

  ‘He’s genuinely scared that when we’ve finished de-briefing him we shall knock him off.’

  ‘Surely you can reassure him on that score?’

  ‘It’ll take more t
han blue eyes and soft words, Adam. He’s been in the business a long time. He knows what goes on.’

  ‘But we need what he’s got. We need it desperately.’

  ‘I think something happened to put the wind up him.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Have you got tapes and transcripts of his de-briefing?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it obvious when he stopped co-operating?’

  ‘I don’t remember. I should think it is, more or less.’

  ‘Could you have it checked?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll check it myself.’

  ‘Could you come back to me when you’ve done it?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll work backwards but it will take a day or two.’

  ‘I’ll be at the flat for the next few days. After that I’m taking him down to Dover and Rye.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘The white cliffs of Dover and all that.’

  ‘I hope it works.’

  ‘So do I.’

  And on that note of no-confidence Lawler hung up. As his coffee cooled he looked through his mail. The top one had a Barclay’s Bank look about it and he could see through the transparent window of the envelope that it was his statement. He tried to guess what his balance would be. It must be just over £2,000, say £2,250. However carefully you worked it out your balance was always much less. So halve your guess. Call it a round thousand and you’d be safe. He opened the envelope and looked at the last figure. It was £72. The next item was a postcard with a printed message that informed him that the Restaurant d’Or was under new management, and would value his custom. A larger buff envelope enclosed a magazine from the Intelligence Corps depot at Ashford. And the last letter was from his solicitor. Not really his solicitor, but a friend who was advising him. It was typed, except for his name and the signature, which were hand-written.

  Dear James,

  I have done a bit of checking which only confirms what I told you. So far as Sarah is concerned you are on to a beating to nothing. The law says that the father of an illegitimate child has no rights of any kind beyond being sued for maintenance. The law also relieves you of any responsibilities. I know this was not your objective, but that is how it is.

  The mother has all the rights. She can decide the child’s name, its nationality, its domicile, its residence (I explained the difference when we spoke). The fact that the mother is feckless and irresponsible, lives with a crook, and is virtually an alcoholic, makes no difference in the eyes of the law. Even if it goes as far as physical cruelty to the child or gross immorality you would have no standing. The child would be taken into care by the Local Authority.

  I very much regret having to pass on this news. It is undoubtedly unfair and unjust, but it is the law. And as I told you, the courts are there to administer the law, not justice.

  The Salvation Army might be able to help if ever you were able to supply grounds for their concern. They’re not so dumb as they look.

  If you’re wise you’ll close this particular door because there is nothing you can do. When Sarah is of age (16 years) she will be free to see you if she wishes. They may have kept all news of you from her, but in my experience young people frequently want to meet the lost parent no matter what lies have been told.

  It’s a sad, sad story and you have my sympathy (Rosie’s too of course). It may seem harsh, but my advice is to forget it all. Children do survive, and banging your head against a brick wall will do nobody any good, least of all you. J is a 24 carat bitch and the man will sooner or later end in the nick.

  Yours affectionately, Phillip

  He folded the letter up slowly and slid it into his jacket pocket. It was odd how people’s criticisms of Joanna always made it worse. The criticisms were always wrong. She wasn’t a bitch. She was weak, and feckless, and an alcoholic. But she wasn’t a bitch. Women said she was a bitch because she was beautiful. Men said it because they didn’t understand. And because it sent his mind rushing to her defence it always brought it all back. There was almost nothing good to remember but it had all happened. He had survived, but that was no consolation. All of it sickened him.

  Slowly, very slowly, and only subconsciously aware of what he was doing, he unpacked his bag.

  He phoned Petrov before he turned in but there was no answer. He dialled the girl’s number and there was no answer there either.

  5

  HOLLAND 1936

  The grey-faced man lay with his head turned to one side as his eyes looked at the woman sitting beside his bed. He was propped up, almost sitting, by four thick pillows, and his bright red lips were rimmed with a vivid blue. Although his breathing was quick and shallow his narrow chest barely moved.

  The room was dark from the drawn curtains, but a thin line of golden sunshine lay across the foot of the bed, and the soft, faint sounds of voices in the street barely disturbed the quietness of the room.

  The mans name was Albert Behar, a Dutch Jew with a British passport that was partly a reward for his service with the British Army in World War I. The phosgene he had inhaled during a German gas attack had left him with the laboured breathing and the blue rim round his lips.

  The house on Spengensekade in Rotterdam had been his home for ten years. But once his illness was terminal they moved to Scheveningen for the fresh sea air. He had two daughters and one son, and they were a close and happy family.

  His wife, the woman beside his bed, knew that at best he had only a few months to live. He was only forty-six and although she loved him dearly she no longer prayed for him to live. He was going to die and she knew. And so did he.

  In fact he had only weeks to live. When peritonitis set in it was the beginning of the end. He died two weeks later in April 1936.

  In those last weeks he had struggled to talk. About how they should live, and what she should do. What seemed to concern him most was the fate of his fatherless son.

  CAIRO 1938

  The man in the white cotton suit, and the boy, clambered down from the number 8 bus and waited for the shuttle-bus to turn. Henri Curiel would have been more comfortable travelling in his almost new Daimler, but for the sake of the boy they had made the trip from Cairo to the Pyramids by bus. Young Georges Behar had to get used to the fact that when he eventually went back to Rotterdam there would be no money for cars at all, let alone Daimlers.

  Henri Curiel was an Egyptian Jew, and wealthy. He was the boy’s uncle; and his wife, the sister of the boy’s mother, had taken the boy under her wing when his father died. She and her family, including the boy’s mother, felt that he needed the influence of a man in his life.

  He paid a guide for two small folding seats and they sat together in the evening sun. They spoke French together as a change from speaking English.

  ‘So what do you think, young Georges?’

  The boy sighed and hesitated as he looked at the man.

  ‘I think, Uncle, I prefer the Sphinx.’

  ‘Tell me why .’

  ‘The Pyramids are very big. But the Sphinx is beautiful. Like a cat in the sand.’

  Henri Curiel smiled. ‘Very good. Very good. She is beautiful, despite her poor broken nose and—’

  ‘How did she lose her nose?’

  ‘They say it was from the artillery when Napoleon was fighting here in Egypt.’

  They sat silently together for several minutes and then the man said, ‘They say that one hundred thousand men laboured for twenty years to build the Great Pyramid. What do you think of that?’

  The boy smiled. ‘Maybe in those days it was sensible but it seems to me a waste of time.’

  Curiel laughed softly. And I agree with you. It was a waste of time. There should be better things for men to do.’

  The boy looked at him. ‘What is a Marxist, Uncle Henri?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Ahmed says you’re a Marxist.’

  ‘Who’s
Ahmed?’

  ‘A boy at school.’

  ‘Who’s his father?’

  ‘Anwar Fawzi.’

  The older man’s brown eyes looked intently at the boy’s face.

  ‘Tell Ahmed Fawzi that he is a fool. Tell him that with my compliments.’

  The boy was silent.

  ‘D’you understand, Georges? You tell him.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle.’

  ‘Has anyone else said anything like that?’

  ‘No. But they said I was a British spy.’

  Curiel laughed. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Nearly sixteen.’

  ‘You tell them that your father was a war hero. He was awarded the OBE. You must have seen it. And the Legion of Honour. He was on Field Marshal Haig’s staff. If anyone says it again I want to know his name.’

  ‘Why don’t Egyptians like the British, Uncle?’

  ‘Because the British Army occupies Egypt. We are ruled by the British.’

  ‘Is that bad?’

  ‘It’s imperialism. Nations should be free to work out their own destinies. You won’t understand, boy. But just you remember. Your father was a brave man. A hero. He was British, but he was a good man.’

  Henri Curiel took a taxi to Sharia Sheikh Rihan that night, and then walked towards the Nile, eventually turning into one of the streets behind Shepheard’s Hotel.

  The beggar who sat at the gate that led to the courtyard held out his thin claw-like hand and Curiel gave him two piastres as he walked by. The heavy door to the house was guarded by a large Nubian with a heavy stick, but when his one good eye recognized Curiel he hurried to open the door. Inside, Yehia Souidan was waiting for him, and they went to his quiet study.

  They talked for two hours in voices that were low but passionate as they argued. It was Curiel who was most vehement.

  ‘It has to be done, Yehia. ‘

  ‘I have known him all my life, Henri. He means no harm, lam sure of it.’

  He may mean no harm but he does harm. His son tells people that I am a Marxist. It’s impossible. People s lives are at stake. ‘