From Chapaev Street he took a cab across town to the West German embassy in Anri Barbjus Street. He paid off the driver and hung around on the pavement long enough to be recognised, then went inside and read a copy of Die Zeit for a quarter of an hour before re-emerging with the signs of a successful visit written upon his face. He returned to the city centre, had lunch at the Budapest and found a public telephone across the street in a yellow shell tacked to the wall of the film institute.
He called the Vitosha and asked in English to speak to their American guest, Mr Craig. So sorry, no guest of that name was registered. Kirov phoned the Balkan Sheraton. A woman receptionist answered. Mr Craig was a guest. A man’s voice broke into the calclass="underline" Mr Craig was not presently in his room; would the caller please state his business and leave a number at which he might be contacted? Kirov promised to phone again. He replaced the receiver, walked the short distance to Lenin Square and took a tramcar to the Vitosha.
He had no serious concern about being followed, but his skin prickled under the eyes of all the people who were not following him. Old Chestyakov used to call it ‘spy’s itch’. Depending on how often it occurred it could be sound instinct or bad nerves. He watched his fellow passengers for the one who was deliberately not watching him; he stared out of the window at the apartment houses ranged like dominoes up the hill, and thought that someone out there was also feeling uncomfortable as the day’s anomalies dropped into his work tray: the non-existent Hristov, the unrecorded appointment with Mr Dukov, the telephone caller at the Vitosha and the Sheraton who did not leave his name. Was it one person who was aware of these discrepancies or three? Indeed did they exist as discrepancies yet? The name of Hristov might still be a puzzle only at Botevgrad and not so far notified to Sofia. Mr Dukov might even now be applying himself to his afternoon’s work without checking the messages that came in during lunch. The abortive calls to Craig might be ignored or simply logged on an operator’s notepad until the security police made their next call for passport collection. Dependent on these variables and a dozen other chances was the time that it would take for someone to make the connection and draw the conclusion that led to Kirov. Dependent on chance. Kirov got off the tram at the crest of the hill and walked across the road to the hotel. And still nobody was following him.
Kirov entered the lobby of the Vitosha in a press of other guests. He went to the desk and while the clerk was occupied with another guest glanced at his mailbox. It was empty. He examined the boxes of the guests in rooms 503 and 609 who had checked in at the same time on the previous day. One of them was also empty; the other contained a telex and a passport. From the desk he went to the telex room, identified himself as the guest in 609 and asked at what time his telex had come in. The girl was pert and obliging and told him that the telex was an overnight transmission. He thanked her, left the telex room and went to the coffee bar in the lobby where he bought a cup, smoked a cigarette and worked out the inferences, though they were clear enough: last night’s passports had been returned before breakfast; the guest in 503 had collected his; the guest in 609 had not bothered to check his mail all day. The police had retained Kirov’s passport. Conclusion? Nothing certain. Inefficiency was as plausible an explanation as suspicion.
The lobby was crowded. Half a dozen African students were sitting at one of the tables with a couple of beers between them. Kirov put on his jovial face and asked if he might join them. He gave them his act as the bored businessman looking for company and bought a round of drinks. Four of the men were West Africans led by a big Nigerian called Bernard, who was studying economics and losing his taste for socialism. The other two were South Africans with withered faces and quick narrow eyes; they had a look of faith about them and an interest in unspecified subjects that kept them in Bulgaria. Bernard was indulgent: they had even less money than he had and prospects even thinner than his own with his uncle’s wholesale millet business in Lagos. He confided that the South Africans earned pocket money by spying on the others, then confessed generously that he didn’t care, he would be leaving the country in April and the Bulgarians were welcome to it. He sank his beer and looked carelessly about in case another had arrived.
‘You looking for a woman?’ he enquired. Another party of students had arrived, his compatriot and the two South Africans left with them.
‘No.’
‘Well, you’re looking for something — aren’t you?’ He gave a knowing smile and leaned back in his chair to spread his fat, glossy bulk.
‘You can do me a small favour if that’s your business.’
‘Maybe. How much?’
‘Five dollars. Here it is.’ Kirov produced the note from his wallet.
‘To do what?’
‘Go to the reception desk and ask for Herr Hans-Jürgen Becker. If anyone asks what you want, tell them you found some business papers in the elevator and are returning them.’ From his bag Kirov extracted a brochure on air-compressors; he gave it to the other man with his firm’s card and the money.
Bernard considered them. ‘Is this going to earn me a night in the cells?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘Ten dollars.’
‘No.’
Bernard was still looking at the five-dollar bill. His tongue passed across his lips, then he shrugged and said brightly, ‘OK.’ He got to his feet and his big body lumbered towards the reception desk. Kirov moved from the coffee bar across the lobby to the cigarette kiosk where he bought a pack of Phoenix. At the desk Bernard introduced himself to the clerk. Kirov watched the dumb-show. The girl disappeared into the back office and returned with a man. Bernard and the supervisor engaged in conversation for a minute or so, then the latter raised his hand and beckoned to two others who were loitering in the lobby. They approached the desk and placed themselves either side of the Nigerian. After another minute’s conversation, the two men from the lobby took Bernard gently under the arms and escorted him off-stage. He maintained an affable smile throughout.
Kirov left by the main doors and stepped out into the autumn sunlight. He crossed the highway leading to the city and joined the shirt-sleeved crowd waiting by the tram stop. When the number 2 tram arrived he caught it and travelled to Velcova Zavera Square where the tram stopped before its picturesque meander downhill through Svobodata Park. He set out on foot using the cover of the tree-lined avenues to lose any tails.
What had happened? He hadn’t expected as quick a reaction from the local security police. Who were they looking for: Pyotr Andreevitch Kirov, Comrade Hristov or Hans-Jürgen Becker? His guess was that they wanted to talk to Becker; ask him to explain certain discrepancies in his papers and conduct. At this stage they could be little more than curious; otherwise the surveillance at the hotel would have been thorough and men would have been drafted in, instead of which they had relied on the hotel’s own people. OK, so Kirov told himself, no general alarm and nothing too bad: he still had some time.
He left the park by Nezabravka Street near the sports hall and crossed to the Moscow Park Hotel, which didn’t as a rule cater for Westerners and where no one would look for a German salesman. There he checked in as Engineer Anton Alexandrov on business from Varna.
Kirov showered and slept and it was seven-thirty when he woke. Night had fallen. His room lay under the pitter-patter stillness that sounds as if someone else is there but is just the breathing of the building. He shaved, packed his small bag, turned on the radio and left the hotel without depositing his key. He walked the three blocks to the main Lenin highway and picked up a bus into the city.