34
HARRY WAS CHECKING his traveler’s checks when the stewardess began her final round, making sure the first-class passengers had fastened their seat belts as the plane began its descent into Leningrad.
“Excuse me,” said Harry. “Do you know when your next flight back to London is?”
“This aircraft has a four-hour turnaround, and is scheduled to return to London at nine ten this evening.”
“That’s a bit rough on you, isn’t it?”
“No,” she said, suppressing a smile. “We always have a stopover in Leningrad. So if you were to return on this evening’s flight, you’d be served by a completely different crew.”
“Thank you,” said Harry. “That’s most helpful.” He looked out of the cabin window to watch Tolstoy’s favorite city looming larger by the second, although he suspected the great author would have been appalled by its change of name. As he heard the hydraulics lowering the wheels into place he wondered if there would be enough time for him to carry out his shopping spree and be back on board before the cabin door was locked.
When the wheels touched the ground, Harry felt a surge of adrenalin he’d only previously experienced when he’d been behind enemy lines during the war. He sometimes forgot that was nearly thirty years ago, when he was a stone lighter and a whole lot nimbler. Well, at least this time he wouldn’t be expected to face a regiment of Germans advancing toward him.
After leaving Mrs. Babakov, he had committed everything she had said to memory. He hadn’t written anything down for fear of someone discovering what he had planned. He had told no one other than Emma the real reason he was visiting Leningrad, although Giles had worked out that he must be going there to collect the book—although “collect” was the wrong verb.
As the plane bumped along the potholed runway he estimated that it would be at least an hour before he cleared customs and was able to convert some sterling into the local currency. In fact, it took an hour and fourteen minutes, despite his only having an overnight bag and exchanging ten pounds for twenty-five rubles. He then had to join the end of a long taxi queue, because the Russians hadn’t quite got the hang of free enterprise.
“The corner of Nevsky Prospekt and Bolshaya Morskaya Street,” he instructed the driver in his native tongue, hoping he would know where it was. All those hours learning Russian, when in truth he would only need a few well-honed phrases, as he intended to be on his way back to England in a few hours, mission completed, as his old commanding officer would say.
During the drive into the city they passed the Yusupov Palace, when Harry’s thoughts turned to Rasputin. The arch manipulator might have enjoyed his little subterfuge. Harry only hoped he wouldn’t end up being poisoned, wrapped in a carpet and then dropped through an ice-hole in the Malaya Nevka river. Harry realized that if he was going to be back at the airport in time to board the 21:10 to Heathrow, he would only have twenty or thirty minutes to spare. But that should be more than enough.
The taxi driver stopped outside an antiquarian bookshop and pointed to the meter. Harry took out a five-ruble note and handed it to him.
“I don’t expect to be long, so would you be kind enough to wait?”
The driver pocketed the note and gave him a curt nod.
The moment Harry stepped inside the shop, he could see why Mrs. Babakov had chosen this particular establishment in which to secrete her treasure. It was almost as if they didn’t want to sell anything. An elderly woman was seated behind the counter, her head in a book. Harry smiled at her, but she didn’t even look up when the bell rang above the door.
He took a couple of books down from a nearby shelf and pretended to peruse them as he edged his way slowly to the back of the shop, his heart beating a little faster with each step he took. Would it still be there? Had someone already bought it, only to discover when they got home that they’d got the wrong book? Had another customer captured the prize and destroyed Uncle Joe for fear they might be caught with it? He could think of a dozen reasons why the three-thousand-mile round trip could turn out to be a wasted journey. But for the moment, hope still triumphed over expectation.
When he finally reached the bookcase on which Mrs. Babakov had said she’d hidden her husband’s work, he closed his eyes and prayed. He opened his eyes to find that Tess of the d’Urbervilles was no longer in its place; just a gap covered with a thin layer of dust between A Tale of Two Cities and Daniel Deronda. Mrs. Babakov had made no mention of Daniel Deronda.
He glanced back toward the counter, to see the old woman turning a page. Standing on tiptoe, he stretched up and eased A Tale of Two Cities off the top shelf, accompanied by a shower of dust that sprinkled down on him. When he opened it, he thought he might have a heart attack, because it was not a copy of Dickens’s work but a slim volume by Anatoly Babakov.
Not wishing to draw attention to his prize, he took two other novels from the same shelf, Greenmantle by John Buchan and Jamaica Inn by Daphne du Maurier, and pretended to browse as he made his way slowly toward the counter. He almost felt guilty interrupting the old woman as he placed the three books on the counter in front of her.
She opened each of them in turn and checked the prices. Mrs. Babakov had even penciled in the price. If she’d turned one more page, he would have been caught. She didn’t. Using her fingers as an adding machine, she said, “Eight rubles.”
Harry handed her two five-ruble notes, having been warned when he was in Moscow for the conference that shopkeepers had to report anyone who attempted to purchase goods with foreign currency and, more important, that they were to refuse the sale and confiscate the money. He thanked her as she handed him his change. By the time he left the shop, she’d turned another page.
“Back to the airport,” said Harry as he climbed into the waiting taxi. The driver looked surprised, but swung obediently around and set out on the return journey.
Harry opened the book once again to check that it hadn’t been an illusion. The thrill of the chase was replaced by a feeling of triumph. He turned to the first page and began reading. All those hours spent studying Russian were finally proving worthwhile. He turned the page.
An early evening traffic jam meant the journey back to the airport took far longer than he’d originally anticipated. He began to check his watch every few minutes, fearful that he might miss the plane. By the time the taxi dropped him at the airport, he had reached chapter seven and the death of Stalin’s second wife. He handed another five rubles to the driver and didn’t wait for the change, but ran into the airport and followed the signs for the BOAC counter.
“Can you get me on the nine ten back to London?”
“First or economy?” asked the booking clerk.
“First.”
“Window or aisle?”
“Window, please.”
“Six A,” she said, handing him a ticket.
It amused Harry that he would be flying back in the same seat he’d occupied for the incoming flight.
“Do you have any luggage to check in, sir?”
“No, just this,” he said, holding up his bag.
“The flight is due to take off shortly, sir, so it might be wise to make your way through to customs.”
Harry wondered how many times a day she delivered that particular line. He was happy to obey her suggestion and, as he passed a bank of telephones, his thoughts turned to Emma and Mrs. Babakov, but he would have to wait until he was back in London before he could tell them the news.
He was only a couple of strides away from passport control when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned to find two heavily built young policemen standing on either side of him.
“Would you come with me,” said one of the officers, confident that Harry spoke Russian.
“Why?” asked Harry. “I’m on my way back to London and I don’t want to miss my flight.”
“We just need to check your bag. If there are no irregularities, you’ll have more than enough time to catch your flight.”
Harry prayed they were looking for drugs, cash, or contraband, as they gripped him firmly by the arm and led him away. He considered making a dash for it. Perhaps twenty years ago …
The policemen stopped outside an unmarked door, unlocked it, and shoved Harry inside. The door slammed behind him and he heard a key turning in the lock. He looked around the room. A small table, two chairs, and no windows. Nothing on the walls other than a large black and white photograph of Comrade Brezhnev, chairman of the party.
Moments later, he heard the key turning in the lock again. Harry already had half a story prepared about having come to St. Petersburg to visit the Hermitage. The door opened and a man entered. The sight of this tall, elegantly dressed officer caused Harry to feel apprehensive for the first time. He was wearing a dark green uniform with three gold stars on his epaulets and too many medals on his chest to suggest that he might be easily intimidated. Two very different men followed him in, whose appearance seemed to disprove Darwin’s theory of evolution.
“Mr. Clifton, my name is Colonel Marinkin and I am the officer in charge of this investigation. Please open your bag.” Harry unzipped the bag and stood back. “Place all the contents on the table.”
Harry took out his wash bag, a pair of pants, a pair of socks, a cream shirt, just in case he had to stay overnight, and three books. The colonel only seemed interested in the books, which he studied for a few moments before placing two of them back on the table.
“You may pack your bag, Mr. Clifton.”
Harry let out a long sigh as he returned his belongings to the bag. At least the whole exercise hadn’t been a complete waste of time. He knew the book existed, and he’d even read seven chapters, which he would write out on the plane.
“Are you aware of what this book is?” asked the colonel, holding it up.
“A Tale of Two Cities,” said Harry, “among my favorites but not considered to be Dickens’s masterpiece.”
“Don’t play games with me,” said Marinkin. “We are not the complete fools you arrogant English take us for. This book, as you well know, is Uncle Joe by Anatoly Babakov, which you have been trying to get hold of for some years. Today you almost succeeded. You planned everything down to the finest detail. First you visit Mrs. Babakov in Pittsburgh to learn where she had hidden the book. On returning to Bristol, you brush up on your Russian, even impressing your tutor with your grasp of our language. You then fly to Leningrad just a few days before your visa is due to expire. You enter the country carrying only an overnight bag, the contents of which suggest you didn’t plan even to stay overnight, and you change just ten pounds into rubles. You ask a taxi driver to take you to an obscure antiquarian bookshop in the center of the city. You purchase three books, two of which you could have picked up in any bookshop in England. You ask the driver to take you back to the airport and you check yourself in on the next flight home, even the same seat. Who do you imagine you’re fooling? No, Mr. Clifton, your luck has run out, and I am placing you under arrest.”
“On what charge?” asked Harry. “Buying a book?”
“Save it for the trial, Mr. Clifton.”
“Would those passengers traveling to London on BOAC flight number…”
* * *
“There’s a Mr. Bishara on line three,” said Rachel. “Shall I put him through?”
“Yes,” said Seb, then placed a hand over the mouthpiece and asked his two colleagues if they could leave him for a few minutes.
“Mr. Clifton, I think it’s time we had another game of backgammon.”
“I’m not sure I can afford it.”
“In exchange for a lesson, I ask for nothing more than information.”
“What do you need to know?”
“Have you ever come across a man by the name of Desmond Mellor?”
“Yes, I have.”
“And your opinion of him?”
“On a scale of one to ten? One.”
“I see. And what about a Major Alex Fisher MP?”
“Minus one.”
“Do you still own six percent of Farthings Bank?”
“Seven percent, and those shares are still not for sale.”
“That’s not why I asked. Shall we say ten o’clock tonight at the Clermont?”
“Could we make it a little later? I’m taking my aunt Grace to see Death of a Salesman at the Aldwych, but she always likes to catch the last train back to Cambridge, so I could be with you around eleven.”
“I’m delighted to be stood up in favor of your aunt, Mr. Clifton. I look forward to seeing you at eleven at the Clermont—where we can discuss Death of a Salesman.”