Revelation

Findhorn felt as if spiders were crawling up his back. 'I wondered how they were planning to do it.'

'Revelation Island. Jerusalem of the effing Aegean.' Archie shook his head. 'Get off it, Fred. Get out of it as fast as you can.'

'I've been thinking of nothing else. But there's only one way off Patmos, and that's the ferry in Skala harbour.'

'Do you hear me? Get out of this house. Vanish. Sleep out in the open. Then come straight down from the hills and onto the ferry when it's crowded. And never, never be alone between here and the nearest airport, not for a second. It's your only chance, Fred.'

'What about you?'

'I'll tell them you went looking for a place in Oriko, to be close to a beach. It's the best I can do for you.' For the first time in the evening Archie looked directly at his friend. The man's eyes were dark with despair. 'I failed you, Fred. I'm sorry. But for a few days there I had a wonderful vision of freedom.'

* * *

Findhorn had a better idea. In the early morning he emerged, freshly shaven but cold and smelling a little of sheep dung, along a track leading into Kampos, the northernmost village of the island. In one little shop he bought black shoe polish, in another some safety pins, scissors and a few yards of black cloth. Then he disappeared back up the track. It took him two hours of experiment before he was satisfied, and he had trouble with the dark eyebrows, but the men on the quayside paid no attention to the woman in sunglasses, dressed head to toe in the traditional black, who climbed the gangplank onto the morning ferry.

* * *

The taxi driver fully justified the fearful reputation of all Greek taxi drivers and Findhorn, having just escaped with his life, thought it would be dumb to end up wrapped round a lamp post. He arrived at Athens airport drained and in a state of nervous exhaustion. He just caught a flight to Heathrow, changing at Paris, and found himself a quiet, clean bed and breakfast in Cricklewood, as far from Central London as the Underground would take him. He bought a burger and ate it in his room, watching some nondescript quiz game on television while his mind whirled around the day's events. I came close. I now know the stakes. But I'm no nearer Petrosian's mechanism.

He telephoned nobody, checked no e-mails. In no way could he be traced here. Nothing could touch him. He was secure. Absolutely safe. Yet again, he thought, pure reason triumphs over irrational fear.

And he jammed a chair up against the door handle.

23 The Traitor

Jurgen Rosenblum was wearing a long overcoat, with a fur collar which was turned up, protecting his ears from the snow-laden, icy wind. He was stamping his feet and staring glumly at the window display. Assorted dummies were dressed in tropical beachwear against a backdrop of palm trees and sun-drenched beaches. They were lounging in physiologically improbable attitudes around a motor boat, underneath a notice which said 'Sparkle with Speedo Swimwear'.

He looked up, saw Petrosian and grinned. 'Hey, old friend!'

'Well,' Petrosian answered in German, taking his hand, 'you look like a snowman. How's life?'

Rosenblum grinned some more. 'It's hell, but we proleteriat have to keep plugging away towards a socialist society.'

Petrosian said, '"Onward our heroes march to victory,"' and Rosenblum gave him a quizzical look.

Rosenblum took Petrosian by the arm and they walked along the streets, facing into the bitter wind. Petrosian felt his ears in pain. 'So, what's this about, Jurg?'

'Not here. Let's take a walk.'

They crossed into Central Park and headed north. There were ice skaters on a pond and children playing around snowmen. Rosenblum nodded at a woman walking a small frozen terrier. Once past her, he said, 'Lev, you're about to be arrested.'

'What?'

'This is on a need to know basis, Lev, and one thing you don't need to know is the source of my information. Let's just say that I have a New York friend who has a New York friend.'

There was nobody close to them, but Petrosian spoke quietly. 'I know I was bugged at Greers Ferry. And the FBI wanted to know about Kitty and me.'

'We should speak in English, Lev. German draws attention. You've been bugged for a year now. And you were under surveillance for almost two years during the Manhattan Project.'

'How do you know this?'

'Lev, like I say, don't ask. But a warrant for your arrest will be going out today. Maybe it's already out.'

'What's the charge?' Petrosian was looking bewildered.

'Espionage.'

Rosenblum watched his friend's shocked reaction with clinical interest. Then Petrosian managed to say, 'They've got it wrong.'

'I know that. Don't ask me how I know it,' Rosenblum added hastily.

'Maybe if I just spoke to them.'

'Sure.' The tone wasn't even sarcastic. 'I'm getting frostbite in the butt, let's find a cafe.'

Petrosian said, 'Since you know so much, Jurgen, maybe you know what case they've got against me.'

'Some of it goes back to the Manhattan. They know you handed documents over to Kitty.'

'They were just letters.'

'Why didn't you use PO Box 1663 at Santa Fe like the rest of Los Alamos?'

'I can't say.'

'You'll have to say if it comes to a trial.'

'I know it looks bad.'

'It looks terrible.'

They turned out of the park. The paths had been cleared of snow but more was falling from the sky. They walked along North Broadway. Rosenblum gave his friend time for the information to sink in, didn't disrupt his train of thought with conversation. He steered him into a warm cafe and sat him down at a window table before returning with a tray. He distributed cappuccino and bagels between them.

Rosenblum dipped his bagel into the cappuccino. A man appeared on the other side of the window, his collar turned up and hat pulled down almost to his eyes. He stood with his back to them, flapping his arms together. Rosenblum looked at him with a mixture of suspicion and alarm.

'Jurgen, that happened a decade ago. If they were going to do anything they'd have done it then.'

'Wrong, wrong, wrong. Then was war. They took a chance on you out of sheer necessity. Now is different. They have new stuff on you, evidence that will convince any jury.' Rosenblum kept glancing at the man on the other side of the window.

'How can they have? I haven't done anything.'

'You were seen entering the Soviet Consulate in New York on several occasions.'

'I have a brother in Armenia. I was asking about the possibility of getting an exit visa for him and his family. The FBI quizzed me about that.'

'Were they satisfied?' A middle-aged woman approached the man. They linked arms and scurried off. Rosenblum visibly relaxed. He took a nibble at his bagel.

Petrosian said, 'I think so.'

'They were not. However that's not why you're about to be arrested. Twenty-four hours ago a long telegram was sent from the consulate to Moscow, not in their usual cryptogram which is unbreakable, but in an old GRU effort which Arlington Hall cracked years ago. It mentions you by name. It says you've supplied wonderful new, detailed information about the Los Alamos work which they'll be sending out by pouch. It's cleverly meshed with stuff they know the Americans already know if you get the general meaning. It delivers you to the executioner with vaseline on your skull and electrodes on your balls. You're the walking dead, Lev. And you have no place to hide.'

Petrosian felt himself going pale. He pushed his plate away. 'For a friend, Jurgen, you're the most treacherous bastard I've ever met.'

'Hey.' Rosenblum's tone was that of injured innocence. 'Don't shoot the messenger. I'm your pal.'