Levin was not completely sure he had persuaded Galina; wouldn’t know whether or not she would actually come with him until the very act of defection – almost literally the cutting of the umbilical cord – but knew he had to act quickly before the already existing and heavy doubts hardened to outweigh the fragile arguments with which he’d worked to convince her. He walked apparently unhurriedly – but inwardly churning – through the upper corridor in the United Nations building, anxious to complete the established contact procedure and begin it all. The library – housing the hundreds of reports and pamphlets poured out by the UN but never, he suspected, read by anyone except their authors – was surprisingly full, at least a dozen people browsing among the partitioned gangways. But not, fortunately, cluttering the section devoted to his own subject, worldwide mineral deposits. Nervously impatient though he was, Levin proceeded with the proper professional caution, forcing himself to browse like the others through an American assessment of oil-bearing shale deposits, a necessary explanation for his presence there if he were challenged by a suspicious security officer of his own Soviet delegation. It was a full fifteen minutes before he made the move, with seeming casualness, picking up a Soviet account for what appeared to be comparison with some statistic from one of the other books and then replacing it. But not upright, as it had been: on its spine, the emergency, meeting-at-once request. Rigidly maintaining the professionalism, he did not immediately hurry away from the section, making protective time pass by staring down at type which blurred before his eyes and making meaningless notations on a pocket pad before finally putting the other two publications back in their designated places in the racks, but both properly upright this time. Would it be an hour, like they’d always promised? He hoped so. He was desperate for the impression at least that some action – some movement – was being started.
Despite the stomach-tensed, perpetual apprehension, Levin found a small amusement in the fact that Vadim Dolya had provided the way undetectably for him to make a meeting with the FBI. He’d already checked the other man’s commitments for the day, to ensure his presence in the peace studies office, and Dolya smiled up when Levin entered.
‘A favour,’ announced Levin.
‘What?’
‘You were right about the electrical goods: I think Galina is going to be an actual drain upon Moscow’s central grid system!’
Dolya continued smiling at the weak attempt at humour. ‘A shopping list?’
‘Almost a computer print-out: irons, toasters, microwaves, curling tongs… there seems to be nothing she hasn’t thought of.’
‘Is there anything to keep you here today?’ asked Dolya, who knew anyway that Levin’s diary was clear because it was his primary function to know at all times the activities of the KGB operatives for whom he was responsible.
‘No,’ said Levin.
‘Take as long as you want,’ offered Dolya generously. ‘And Yevgennie Pavlovich?’
‘What?’
‘Buy Japanese imports: they’re much more reliable than the American products.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ said Levin uncomfortably.
Levin walked purposefully from the United Nations building, veering right through the forecourt and by so doing going close to the Soviet-presented peace status of the figure wielding a hammer over a broadsword. In the early days of his appointment its inscription – ‘Let us beat swords into ploughshares’ – had amused Levin with its insincerity, but not any longer. He wondered how difficult it would be for him to be amused, ever again. He managed to catch the lights on UN Plaza and continued on down 44th Street, going a full block until he reached Second Avenue upon which he had already isolated a number of electrical stores and shops. He made no effort to establish any surveillance, either hoped-for (so fervently hoped-for) American or hoped-against Russian. The spine-downwards alert dictated that the FBI place him under observation from his moment of departure from the UN building and only make an approach – at their chosen time and location – when they were absolutely certain he was not being followed by his own people. No approach after an hour meant he was being monitored by the Russians and that any American meeting had to be abandoned, to await a later effort signalled by another misplaced book. At the thought of there being no encounter Levin felt perspiration prick out upon his back and form into rivulets. Galina would not be able to withstand any delay: he knew she wouldn’t. He was unsure if he could endure much delay himself. Near 45th Street he bought an electrical travelling iron and a small, electrically operated coffee-bean grinder, unwilling to burden himself with things that were too heavy because he didn’t intend transporting them anywhere anyway. To give his protectors as much help as possible identifying any pursuit Levin went further westwards on 45th, turning to complete the square on Park and skirting the overpowering PanAm building to regain 42nd Street. At the corner with Lexington, near the Grand Central Station complex and its rash of beer-crate and orange-box shoeshine vendors, he felt a presence to his right. A voice said: ‘The Hyatt bar. Not the garden.’
Levin showed no reaction, nor did he attempt to locate the person who gave the instruction, going instead immediately to his left into the waterfall-dominated foyer of the hotel built over the station. As he ascended the escalator to the mid-floor level Levin acknowledged the wisdom of the choice: it was huge and open plan, a human anthill of a place where the FBI could undetectably position as many watchers as they wanted without their becoming the focus of any attention. He turned away from the registration area and went up the next set of steps to the higher level but shook his head against the captain’s smiled invitation to be seated in the frond and flower bedecked garden area overhanging the street, going instead to the squared bar and carefully positioning himself with seats available either side. He paid at once and in cash for his whisky, not charging it to an accumulating tab; it was automatic not to involve himself in hindering delays in case he had to move with abrupt urgency.
Levin didn’t react to the person settling to his left. The voice said: ‘Quite some place’, and Levin smiled sideways, nodding agreement to the most casual of casual conversations, knowing his control wanted it to seem a chance encounter to enable the protectors arranged unseen around them to make the final, positive check for any Russian surveillance.
‘Very impressive,’ agreed Levin.
‘I guess they recycle the water.’ David Proctor was a compact, hard-bodied man who constantly removed and then replaced his heavy horn-rimmed spectacles, as if he were ashamed of the physical frailty which made it necessary to wear them. The man had been appointed Levin’s control immediately upon the Russian’s first approach to the FBI: the circumstances had prevented their becoming anything like friends but from the odd remark Levin knew the American jogged most weekdays and worked out in a gymnasium on Saturdays and Sundays.
‘I guess they do,’ agreed Levin.
‘You put the frighteners into us, Yevgennie,’ said Proctor.
Levin had not been conscious of the clearance being signalled to the other man by someone in the foyer and was glad; it proved they were professional and that he was well protected. He said: ‘I’m frightened myself.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘I’m being recalled.’
With the mixer straw Proctor eased the lemon peel from his martini and idly squeezed it back into the drink. ‘Didn’t expect that,’ he admitted.
‘Neither did I,’ said Levin, waiting.
‘This could be good, Yevgennie. Very good.’
Levin’s response to the predictable suggestion that he continue spying from Moscow was immediate. ‘No,’ he refused.
‘Why not?’
‘A dozen reasons why not,’ said Levin, as forcefully as their surroundings would allow. ‘Working with you here, as I have done for the past year, is altogether different from working for you back in Moscow. And I wouldn’t anyway be working for you, would I? It would mean a transfer to the CIA: extending the knowledge of my identity to another agency and increasing the risk of detection. But that’s not my biggest fear: my biggest fear is that the recall at this time, ahead of when we both expected it, means there’s already some suspicion.’
Trained as he was, Proctor was still unable to prevent the instinctive look beyond them into the vast foyer. He removed, polished and then replaced the spectacles and said: ‘You got any reason for thinking that?’
‘The early recall, like I said. That’s always the most obvious indication. And I haven’t been assigned anything but routine for at least the past three months. You know that.’
‘Frozen out?’ said Proctor, more to himself than to the other man.
‘That’s what I think.’
‘When are you supposed to go back?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘That’s quick, too,’ said the man, in growing acceptance.
‘Too quick. I’m frightened, David. I need help.’
‘Don’t worry,’ placated the American. ‘It’ll be all right.’
‘You any idea how the KGB treat people they believe to be traitors? Remember Penkovsky, who told your CIA about the Cuban missiles so that Kennedy could confront Krushchev? They fed him alive – slowly – into a furnace!
We’re shown a warning film at training schools. He melts!’
‘Easy, Yevgennie. Easy.’
‘I want to come across,’ insisted Levin. There’s a lot I could offer. Structure at the UN. Training. Some of the agent set-up throughout the United States…’
Again the American gave a startled reaction. ‘You got that sort of detail… names… places…!’
‘Some.’
‘You never told me.’
‘My insurance, David: my very necessary insurance.’
The barman approached inquiringly and both nodded agreement to fresh drinks. They paid separately, as strangers would have done.
Proctor said: ‘Your wife and kids, too?’
Levin did not immediately respond, gazing down into his glass. Then he said: ‘Natalia is still in Moscow: I told you about the operation on her eyes. She’s not due back for a month.’
Proctor paused. Then he said: ‘That’s a bitch.’
‘I think I’ve persuaded Galina but I’m not sure: she still might refuse.’
‘No chance of getting the girl back sooner?’
‘What reason would there be now? It’s logical for her to remain in Russia until we return: to start trying to get her back here would set off every alarm bell in Moscow.’
‘I’m sorry, Yevgennie. Really sorry.’
‘I’m hoping they’ll let her out, eventually. I know it wouldn’t be for a long time. But eventually,’ said Levin.
Proctor hesitated again. Finally he said ‘Sure’ in a voice from which he didn’t try to keep the doubt.
‘How quickly can you get me out?’ demanded Levin.
‘A day or two. Three at the outside.’
‘How?’
‘We’ll use the book displacement, like before. But the American edition. Check every afternoon: it’ll mean we’ll be ready, that night.’
‘Where?’
‘How freely can you move?’
‘Dolya has agreed to my taking Galina out in the evenings,’ said Levin. ‘It shouldn’t be difficult.’
‘You know the Plaza Hotel?’
‘Yes.’
‘There are two entrances, one directly from Central Park South, with the main doors fronting on to Fifth Avenue,’ set out Proctor. ‘When you get the signal enter from the park, as if you’re going to Trader Vic’s or the Oak Room. I’ll pick you up in the lobby: we’ll go straight around and exit by the main door. We’ll have cars waiting: the parking area is convenient. How’s that sound?’
‘Almost too simple.’
‘The simple way is always the best way.’
‘What time?’
‘It’s got to seem like a dinner outing, right? Let’s say seven: but we’ll build in contingency time. Don’t want to screw up over something as innocent as a traffic block, crossing town.’
‘How long?’
‘Thirty minutes,’ said the American. ‘I’ll definitely be there at seven – earlier, in fact – and I’ll wait until seven thirty. If you’re not there by then I’ll know there’s a problem.’
‘It wouldn’t automatically mean I’ve been stopped.’
‘I realize that,’ said Proctor. ‘If you’ve got to cry off for any reason, just let yourself be seen around the UN the following day: we’ll be watching. And waiting in exactly the same way, that night. And the following night, if necessary.’
‘It’ll work, won’t it?’ said Levin in sudden urgency.
‘We’ll make it work,’ assured Proctor. ‘Everything’s going to be all right, Yevgennie. Believe me.’
‘I want to,’ said Levin. Then he said: ‘Petr is sixteen.’
‘Yes?’ said the American curiously.
‘You’ll make everything possible for him, won’t you? High school, college. Things like that? I’ve earned it, after all.’
‘It’ll all be taken care of,’ promised Proctor in further reassurance. ‘There’ll be a safe house. New identities. Money.’
‘I’ll cooperate,’ said Levin, making a promise of his own.
‘I know you will.’
‘And Natalia?’
‘What about her?’
‘Will you – your people – try to help me there, too? Through the State Department, maybe?’
‘We’ll do what we can: I’ll personally ask Washington for advice, to work out the best way.’
‘Just three days?’ queried Levin, as if he found it difficult to believe.
‘At the outside.’
‘Thank you, David. For everything. You’re a good friend.’
‘There won’t be any problems.’
‘It’s difficult to imagine that right now,’ said Levin. ‘All I can think of right now is that I’ve made a terrible mistake.’
On the other side of the World, Yuri Vasilivich Malik was also reflecting upon mistakes, trying to assess their potential – and personal – danger. At his inferior, first-posting level it would be a mistake to interfere in what he knew was being planned but of which he was officially supposed to know nothing. Yet the retribution operation that Ilena had disclosed to him was madness. And could only result in the sort of disaster that had so very recently engulfed the GRU; maybe even a worse disaster. By which, therefore, he could be destroyed. So either way he lost. The decision, then, had to be one of degrees, between the greater and the lesser.
One of his instructors at the Metrostroevskaya Street training school – into the idiosyncracies of the American language and its slang – had been a pale-skinned, pale-haired American trapped by his homosexuality into passing over US defence secrets from Silicon Valley who’d chosen defection when his FBI arrest became inevitable. Yuri had particularly liked the expression encompassing indecision: either shit or get off the pot. He’d never expected it to become personally applicable.
It took only three hours for Yuri to complete the confirmatory round journey to the military section of Kabul airport – aware it might also provide some minimal protection against any later punishment of Ilena, if there were an inquiry into his source – and return to the embassy by noon. He bypassed his own cramped, junior office in the rezidentura – and Ilena’s separate accommodation, because he did not want to frighten her – to make his way directly to the comparatively expansive quarters of Georgi Petrovich Solov.
‘Yes?’ inquired the duty clerk.
‘I have to see the Comrade Rezident,’ said Yuri. He added: ‘Upon a matter of the utmost urgency and importance.’