‘The changes on the farms and in the factories, and in the public services — making our people more responsible for their labour, and rewarding them individually — is a process I believe you support in principal, Feliks. But that process, as you know, is now at its nadir. People’s lives have become harder, but not yet better. Faith in the policy has crumbled. It’s no secret that the Zhiguli car factory has been on strike for two weeks because the enforcement of new quality standards has cut the workers’ bonuses. What is still a secret, however, is how fast the strikes are spreading. Within two weeks, fifty per cent of our industrial production may be at a standstill.’
Astashenkov let out an involuntary low whistle.
‘Yes. It’s as bad as that,’ Savkin was pleased he’d been able to startle the Admiral. ‘And the strikers are supported by the majority of the Party. The Nomenklatura can hear the death-rattle of perestroika, and plan to finish it off!’
‘But then what? A return to the old ways? They must know that’s impossible now.’
‘Is it? Are you sure?’
Astashenkov sensed he had been trapped.
‘Well…I’m only a submariner. I’ve no real understanding of economics…’
Savkin was not satisfied with that answer. He waited for Astashenkov to continue.
‘It seems impossible to me. If we’re not to be at an economic disadvantage for ever, we must produce at a price and to a standard that will enable us to compete worldwide. To return to a system of quotas without accountability…’
He knew he sounded if he were parrotting one of Savkin’s own speeches. But it was what he believed.
‘So you think we must continue with the policy? Perestroika at any price?’
Astashenkov breathed in deeply and let out a sigh. He sensed a noose tightening.
‘It’s what they accuse me of,’ the General Secretary persisted. ‘The Nomenklatura. They say it’s my vanity, that I can’t admit the policy is a failure.’
‘Not all the Nomenklatura, Comrade General Secretary.’ Feliks himself held one of those appointments which had to be approved by the Party.
Savkin frowned. Impatiently he pushed his fingers through the straggling white tufts at his temples.
‘Feliks, I need to know how far you yourself will go, in supporting me?’
An hour later, Feliks Astashenkov stood outside one of those slab-sided apartment blocks that fill much of Moscow’s suburbs. Savkin’s courier had dropped him at the end of the road, as he’d asked, and he’d walked the last few hundred metres to Tatiana’s flat. He was badly in need of the fresh air, which was cold enough to numb the end of his nose. What Savkin was planning had shaken him to the core.
He’d telephoned Tatiana the day before, to check she would be at home that evening. Opportunities to see her were so infrequent nowadays, he seized them whenever they arose. But now, as he stood looking up at the lighted windows, trying to remember which one was hers, he regretted making the rendezvous. Solitude was what he needed, not the distracting company of his mistress. He wanted time alone, to consider what Savkin had asked him to do. Not a word of his meeting would he be able to share with Tatiana. No one must ever learn from him what had been said that day.
She’d sounded edgy on the telephone, affecting indifference to his proposal to visit her. Feliks knew what that meant. His affair with her had started when he had been posted to Moscow three years earlier but since his transfer to the Kola Peninsula eighteen months ago, they’d not spent more than a dozen days together. He’d known it couldn’t last. For the second time that day, he approached a rendezvous with trepidation.
Andrew Tinker had been home for two days. He opened his eyes and looked at the bedside clock. It was just after seven a.m.; there was no hurry.
It was the birdsong that had woken him. At sea, he was accustomed to the dull roar of the ventilation system, to being awakened at any time by a call from the control-room and dropping off again easily. But here the persistent trill of a blackbird defeated him.
Patsy’s naked body radiated warmth beside him. His first night home had been difficult. It usually was, with both of them tense from suppressing their feelings for so many weeks. Last night had been different, however.
He turned on his side; she had her back to him.
‘Mmmm. Hello, stranger,’ she mumbled.
‘Hel-lo.’
‘Are you the same stranger who did such lovely things to me last night?’
‘That rings a bell…’ Andrew chuckled.
He kissed her neck. She smelled muskily of sweat and perfumed bath oil.
‘Can you prove it?’
‘Maybe. There’s only one way to find out!’
‘I’m going to do bacon and eggs,’ he called to Patsy, who was in the shower. ‘Just to show you there’s more than one thing I’m good at! Like some?’
‘Put like that, how could I refuse…?’
He was just dishing up when the telephone rang.
It was Norman Craig.
Andrew caught Patsy’s eye across the kitchen and gave her a thumbs-down sign. Craig meant work.
‘Hello, sir. Good morning to you.’
‘I’m desperately sorry, Andrew. Pasty’ll never speak to me again. But I’m about to ruin your weekend. If it’s any consolation, I’m in the same boat, but I’ve been tied up since yesterday.’
‘Sounds serious. What’s the problem?’
‘Look, I’m not being unreasonable, but I simply can’t tell you anything over the phone. You understand. But if you could meet me in my office at about ten, earlier if you can make it, I’d be eternally grateful. It’s bloody important. I wouldn’t be disturbing your leave if it weren’t.’
The captain’s voice had developed an edge.
‘No, of course not. I’ll be on my way in a few minutes.’
Andrew replaced the receiver.
‘What do you mean “you’ll be on your way”? Where are you going?’
‘To Defiance. To Craig’s office,’ he replied.
‘Oh hell! When will you be back?’
‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t say what it was about.’
‘It’s not fair. You’ve just got home, and now this…’
He poured them some coffee and began to eat fast. He would have to change into uniform if he was going to the naval base.
‘Ring me, will you? When you know what he wants?’
‘Sure. But I’m bound to be back by lunchtime.’
HMS Defiance was a building of concrete and brick. On the first floor Tinker pushed his security pass into a turnstile which let him into the administrative sector. The ground floor was packed with workshops; Defiance was primarily the maintainance base for the Squadron. As its Captain, Norman Craig described himself as ‘working from an office over a garage’.
‘Oh, well done. You made it,’ Craig remarked, ushering Tinker to the small sofa, while looking at his watch. ‘Sorry I was cryptic on the blower, but this one really is a stinker. Bloody Sovs. Let me get you a coffee. NATO standard?’
‘No sugar, thanks.’
‘I’ve boiled the kettle. Shan’t be a mo.’
Craig slipped into the clerk’s office next door. None of the staff was in on Saturday. He returned, carrying the mugs.
‘Now…’ he began, dark eyes concentrating on Andrew. ‘You’re an old chum of Phil Hitchens, aren’t you?’
Tinker nodded.
‘You know his wife Sara?’
‘Well, yes. We’ve been friends a long time. Their boy’s my godson.’