‘How will it be done?’
‘Still to be decided between us,’ said Bowden. Imagining the reassurance was necessary, he said: ‘But you’re not to worry. You’ll be absolutely protected whatever the arrangement.’
‘Of course I’ll cooperate,’ said Levin, apparently conceding. Guessing how much the FBI would want it, he added hurriedly to Proctor: ‘But however it’s done, I want either you or Billy with me. I don’t want to be with people I don’t know.’
From the other men’s immediate and smiling response Levin knew he’d guessed correctly.
Proctor said: ‘You’re going to insist on that?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Then we’ll be with you, every step of the way,’ guaranteed Bowden. The FBI would have sought positive involvement: Levin was their catch, to be shared but not taken over.
‘You will bring anything from Natalia, the moment it arrives, won’t you?’
‘My word,’ promised Proctor again.
Always a quick undertaking, thought Levin. He said: ‘And something else. We’re cooped up here like prisoners. Aren’t we allowed some sort of outing?’
‘Why not?’ agreed Proctor at once.
At last things were moving, thought Levin. Literally.
Establishing that a Caroline Dixon worked at an advertising agency occupying three floors of the skyscraper block near Madison and 46th Street was almost overly simplistic: Yuri telephoned the number, was assured an executive of that name was employed there and was available and hung up before he was connected to her extension.
He snaked his zig-zag way from the UN, doubly, redoubly and then again retracing his own route. Finally satisfied he was alone he was in position just up from the cross-street junction by 4.30 in the afternoon, aware as he established himself he had no idea what time she would leave.
It was 6.45 before she did, by which time he had had to shift positions four times to avoid drawing attention to himself by loitering, which was not the immediate focus of anger. The woman who left, laughing, was the Caroline Dixon. And she was hand-in-hand with a bespectacled, three-button-suited, clip-collared, club-tied man with a short haircut and vacation-determined tan. Why irritation? he demanded from himself at once. The purpose of the expedition was to confirm that the person whom he had encountered at the 53rd Street safe house was who she claimed to be. Nothing else apart from being sure: ridiculous to be irritated.
He was lucky to halt a cab almost in procession to theirs, stumbling his uncertainty about a destination by saying he was unsure of the address he wanted, gesturing the man in pursuit of the vehicle one hundred yards ahead and saved any positive difficulty by their stopping at a bar just two streets and three blocks away. There was another bar, practically opposite, and he got a window bench and sat with a club soda growing warm between his hands as Caroline and the man encountered a group that seemed to expect them and with whom they drank, for another hour. Yuri stayed with the one club soda. It was more difficult to follow them the second time, because it was later into the evening and the taxis were not so frequent but again they only went three blocks and on the same avenue this time, so it was a straight-line journey and he never lost sight of them. He thought of following them into the restaurant, confident he could conceal himself in the bar, and then decided it was a pointless pursuit and so he abandoned it, but not at once, lingering for almost an hour for no reason, knowing he was behaving foolishly. Maybe he’d already behaved foolishly, he thought, as he finally hailed yet another cab: maybe he should have taken some precaution against AIDS. It was followed quickly by another thought. How was it that his father couldn’t hate, at being cuckolded as he had been?
19
Panchenko had hinted the emergency was greater than before – and definitely sounded more alarmed – which made avoiding the First Chief Directorate building even more essential than after that other panicked call. Kazin decided against using the car again, instead designating the gazebo overlooking the metro station from Izmaylovo Park. Kazin still travelled there in his official vehicle. It had been years since he’d deigned to use any sort of public transport: ten at least, maybe fifteen. He could still remember the stink of too many bodies crowded together.
Panchenko was already waiting, once more ill at ease in civilian clothes, the same dark topcoat over the same dark suit. Away from the warmth of the car, Kazin shivered in his own overcoat, thinking the vehicle might have been more comfortable after all. He pulled into the rotund garden house, glad of the partial protection from the worst of the evening chill.
‘So what’s the problem?’ Kazin demanded at once.
‘Malik’s still investigating,’ announced Panchenko.
The familiar chill Kazin experienced now had nothing to do with the evening’s cold. He said: ‘How do you know?’
‘He withdrew Chernov from Kiev. I’ve just had two hours of the man telling me all about this afternoon’s interview with the bastard,’ said Panchenko.
‘How the hell could Chernov have been withdrawn without your knowing?’ demanded Kazin.
‘Malik withheld notification of authority until Chernov was back. Had him taken directly to Dzerzhinsky Square from the airport.’
‘It is a problem,’ conceded Kazin. ‘A serious problem.’
Panchenko snorted an empty laugh, openly careless of Kazin’s superiority. ‘Serious! You’re damned right it’s serious! It could be disastrous…’ The pause was achingly posed. ‘… Disastrous for both of us…’
Still not the time for correction, thought Kazin; but then it had not been on the previous occasion, either. As insistent now as he had been then, Kazin said: ‘Tell me everything, from the very beginning: nothing left out.’
Panchenko did, from the discovery of the recall notice and the coincidence of Chernov’s almost immediate approach, and throughout Kazin listened head slightly bowed but surprisingly – illogically – all the time conscious of the flow of people in the street outside, funnelling white-breathed towards the underground station. Small people with small fears, he thought, almost enviously.
‘How could Chernov have told a story so different from yours?’ Kazin said when the security chief finished.
‘How could he do otherwise?’ came back Panchenko, as irritated by that remark as he had been by the earlier reflection. ‘It was to avoid any contradiction that we had him posted to Kiev!’
‘I never imagined Malik would be this determined,’ said Kazin, reflective again. But why not? Hadn’t the misshapen pig been this determined when he’d returned from Stalingrad, the whey-faced, bemedalled war hero, to discover his wife didn’t love him any more?
I love you.
Leave him then.
I can’t, not like he is now.
You must.
I can’t!
Momentarily Kazin closed his eyes, shutting out the memories. Urgently he said: ‘So what was Chernov’s impression? Why did he think he was being questioned at all?’
Panchenko replied carefully. He said: ‘Chernov talked of a lot of files and documentation on the desk. And said Malik kept making notes. Chernov felt it was an official inquiry: Malik is reassigning him to Moscow to be available for more questioning.’
‘And Malik knows the rest of the squad were drafted away from Moscow?’ demanded Kazin, wanting absolute clarification.
As he spoke, Kazin shifted, needing movement against the cold, and Panchenko followed him, so that they resumed in the same position as that in which they had earlier been talking. Panchenko said: ‘Chernov was quite explicit about it. Said Malik asked him if he knew of the transfers, which he didn’t of course. And then queried if Chernov had requested his move.’
‘Any indication of the others being recalled?’
‘No,’ said Panchenko at once. Just as quickly, he said: ‘But then we didn’t know about Chernov until it had happened, did we?’