When the great man ended his speech, he waved his fist, the cannon boomed, a flock of cranes lifted from their nests, a band played The Internationale – and everyone stood up and applauded rapturously. The crowd waited for the dam to start to thunder. Nothing happened. Not a drip of water fell. The applause carried on as if, thought Jones, they had been ordered on pain of death not to stop. Hurrahs came and went. Still clapping, the audience craned their necks, wondering what they might have done wrong.
Oumansky hurried up onto the platform to talk to Borodin. The two men jabbed each other in the chest with their fingers. The applause rolled on and on, while Borodin and his crew trotted with their equipment to the cannons. Readying the two big cameras to get side-shots of the cannons, Borodin engaged the artillery officer in a long conversation. Then the clapper-board man went clappety-clap, Borodin raised his hand – and the officer roared a command. Once again, the cannon fired, the band played the Internationale, and the crowd went wild with excitement, just as before.
Still the dam stayed dry, and still the crowd clapped. The camera crew jogged to the bandstand, lined up on the tubas, trombones and drummer, waited for the clapper-board man’s authority, and then filmed the Internationale being played, long-shot, mid-shot, close-up. By now the applause was getting feebler and feebler. The clouds had gone, the sun was glaring and the heat of the day cast a sleepy spell on everyone.
The camera crew walked at no great pace to the top of the dam while the applause pattered on. By now, the audience understood that there was little point in slamming their hands against each other until the clapper-board man had done his thing. The crew lined up for a side-shot of the great dam’s sluice gates, the clapper-board man clackety-clacked and a great tap was opened in the innards of the dam’s workings. Moments later, spouts of water thundered down three hundred feet onto the river bed below.
Two Young Pioneers gave flowers to the man in the suit. One was a blond girl with plaited hair, the other a plump boy with apple cheeks – the same boy, Jones dully realised, he had seen walking silently beside the train in the middle of the night, eating a sandwich at Kharkov station and dancing a jig and playing a peasant’s boy at the collective farm.
As the camera crew sluggishly walked back to the podium to capture the flower-giving and jig-dancing, Jones asked, “Where’s Stalin?”
It was Duranty, standing beyond Lyons and Fischer, who replied, “Jones, old boy, I think that – what, with building socialism all the time – Uncle Joe decided that it was about time he had a nice day off and went for a drink.”
The others sniggered while Jones reddened. He was the new boy and he’d better know his place. That was the message.
As the camera crew got their last shots, the applause dribbled to a stop. Someone closed the dam sluice gates and the water did likewise. Soon, the Soviet and other dignitaries started to head for their limousines, Professor Aubyn and Dr Limner bringing up the rear, as if they’d all been alerted that the show was over by some hidden signal. After a short confusion, the foreign consuls, observers and journalists stood up and headed for their vehicles too. As Jones dallied slowly behind the others, a dapper man emerged and walked with him in step.
“Mr Jones? I suppose I should introduce myself. My name’s Wallace Ilver. I’m the commercial attache at the British Embassy.”
He wore a natty blue suit, white shirt, dark grey tie and shoes so shiny that the sunlight gleamed off them. Balding with a light brown goatee, his face had somehow not enough flesh on it – as if his first layer of skin had been scraped off. His voice was beguiling. “Enjoying the… er… festivities?”
“It all rather went on a bit, what with the filming and all.”
“Such is the way of the New Man. Who would have known such joy was to be had from concrete?” There was something rather likeable about the diplomat’s mannered lament. Jones found himself grinning.
“Oh, crikey,” Ilver continued, “there’s my opposite number from Germany. I’m afraid I ought to go and a have a natter with him, talk shop, that sort of thing.” Ilver made to hurry on. Then he half-turned and said, sotto voce, “Jones, old boy, keep an eye on things here. Watch your back but, if you chance on anything that might strike us as interesting, there’s a cup of Earl Grey in it for you at the embassy. Oh, and a biscuit, of course. If I can ever be any help, just pop by. If I’m not in, leave your card. It’s probably best not to telephone.”
“Does that mean that someone is listening in?” asked Jones.
“It’s probably best not to telephone,” repeated Ilver. “Don’t forget, tea and biscuits whenever you fancy.” His smiled lacked sincerity. “I must dash. Toodle pip.”
“What do you actually do at the embassy, Mr Ilver?” asked Jones.
Ilver pivoted on himself. “I’m the commercial attache, Mr Jones.”
“This is the world’s first truly Communist state. Commerce is dead in the Soviet Union. What do you actually do at the embassy, Mr Ilver?”
“How can I help you, Mr Jones?”
“I’ve been asked to give a photograph to someone at the British Embassy.”
“What does the photograph show?”
“A tank in Russia. Leaning against it a bunch of officers, some German, some Soviet. I’m no expert but the tank looks German to me.”
“The date of the photograph?”
“August this year. It could be faked but one of the Soviet officers leaning against the tank is Kapitan Lyushkov. He looks no different in real life.”
“So, leaving the date aside, recent?”
“I’d say this year, yes.”
“A photograph that is evidence of a present and very direct breach of German promises at the Treaty of Versailles not to develop tank warfare?” snapped Ilver. “A photograph that could start a second world war?”
“Indeed,” said Jones.
The others had gone far ahead. “Where is this photograph?”
“In my pocket.”
“May I have it?”
“Of course.”
Ilver turned, inflecting his body, covering Jones from scrutiny. He produced a silver cigarette case and opened it.
“Cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Don’t be dim, Mr Jones. Cigarette?”
“Yes, please.” Ilver leaned into Jones, handed over a cigarette and fished out a lighter. As he did so, Jones proffered the envelope which Ilver pocketed. Ilver lit the cigarette in Jones’ mouth and immediately Jones started to cough, helplessly.
“Can’t you pretend to smoke?”
“No.”
“Never mind. Nobody’s watching, thank God. Put it out, if you will.”
Jones threw away the cigarette.
“Thank you very much, Mr Jones. Her Majesty’s Government is in your debt. Can you tell me who gave this photograph to you?”
“A British engineer, a Mr Attercliffe.”
“First name?”
“Harold.”
Ilver’s eyes narrowed. “So, once again, thanks ever so. Now I really must dash. But Jones. Have a care. Don’t mention this to anyone. The less said, the better for all concerned. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“And, Mr Jones, Her Majesty’s Government is in your debt.”
Ilver made to hurry ahead, but before he had gone very far, a limousine caught up with them. It was a box with chrome shark’s teeth for a radiator grille. Lyushkov was at the wheel, Zakovsky in the front passenger seat.