Had they been dogs, there would have been some unfriendly sniffing and a menacing show of teeth: as it was, their noses actually wrinkled. I wondered whether Stephen’s instinctive response was to the real Frank, or to the cover Frank: to an individual or to a type.
Frank, I supposed, merely guessed that any friend of mine was no friend of his; and if Ian were right about him following me, he had certainly seen Stephen before.
Neither of them wanted to say anything to the other.
‘Well, Frank,’ I said cheerfully, hiding my amusement, ‘thank you for your company. I’m off now with Stephen for the rest of the day. See you at breakfast, I guess.’
‘You bet.’
We turned away, but after a step or two Stephen glanced back, frowning. I looked where he did: Frank’s back view, walking off.
‘Haven’t I seen him before?’ Stephen said.
‘Where?’
‘Couldn’t say. Yesterday morning, up here in the Square, maybe.’
We were walking along the side of Red Square, towards the GUM department store.
‘He’s staying at the Intourist,’ I said.
Stephen nodded, dismissing it. ‘Where to?’ he said.
‘Phone box.’
We found one and inserted the two kopeks, but there was no answer from the number Misha had given us. Tried again, this time for Yuri Ivanovich Chulitsky. Same result.
‘Telex in Kutuzovsky Prospect,’ I said. ‘Where do we get a taxi?’
‘The metro is cheap. Only five kopeks, however far you go.’
He couldn’t understand why I should want to spend money when I didn’t have to: incredulity halfway to exasperation filled his eyes and voice. I gave in with a shrug and we went by metro, with me battling as usual against the claustrophobic feeling I always got from hurtling through mole-runs far underground. The cathedral-like stations of the Moscow metro seemed to have been built to the greater glory of technology (down with churches) but on the achingly long and boring escalators I found myself quite missing London’s vulgar advertisements for bras. Ritzy, jazzy, noisy, dirty, uninhibited old London, greedy and gutsy and grabbing at life. Gold coaches and white horses along the Mall instead of tanks, and garbage collectors on strike.
‘Do the dustbin men ever strike here?’ I said to Stephen.
‘Strikes? Don’t be silly. Strikes are not allowed in Russia.’
We finally resurfaced, and after a good deal of asking and walking, arrived at the Commercial section, which was guarded as before by a soldier. Again we talked our way in, and, by following Oliver Waterman’s advice and making a nuisance of myself, I persuaded the inmates to telex my message, which was: REQUEST DETAILS OF LIFE AND BACKGROUND OF HANS KRAMER. ALSO WHEREABOUTS OF HIS BODY. ALSO NAME AND TELEPHONE NUMBER OF THE PATHOLOGIST WHO DID THE AUTOPSY.
‘Don’t expect an answer,’ I was told brusquely. ‘There’s all hell breaking loose in some place in Africa which is choc-a-bloc with Soviet guns and so-called advisers. The telex is steaming. The diplomats have priority. You’ll be way way down the list.’
‘Thanks very much,’ I said, and we trudged our way back to the pavement outside.
‘Now what?’ Stephen said.
‘Try those numbers again.’
We found a glass-walled box nearby and put the kopeks in the slot. No answers, as before.
‘Probably not home from work yet,’ Stephen said.
I nodded. At four in the afternoon the daylight was fading fast to dusk, the lighted windows shining brighter with every minute.
‘What do you want to do now?’ Stephen said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Like to come up to the University, then? We’re not all that far away, actually. Nearer than to your hotel.’
‘No hope of anything to eat, there, I suppose?’ I said.
He looked surprised. ‘Yes, if you like. There’s a sort of supermarket for students in the basement, and kitchens upstairs. We can buy something and eat in my room, if you like.’ He seemed doubtful. ‘It won’t be as good as the Intourist Hotel, though.’
‘I’ll risk it.’
‘I’ll ring up and say you’re coming,’ he said, turning back to the telephone box.
‘Can’t we just go?’
He shook his head. ‘In Russia, everything has to be arranged first. If it is arranged, it is OK. If it’s not arranged, it’s irregular, suspicious, or subversive, and what’s more, you won’t get in.’ He fished around for another two-kopek piece and put it to good use.
Coming out of the telephone box and saying my visit was fixed, he began planning a route via the metro, but I was no longer listening. Two men were walking towards us, talking intently. From thinking there was something familiar about one of them I progressed by a series of mental jumps to realising that I knew them both.
They were Ian Young and Malcolm Herrick.
8
They were, if anything, more surprised to see me.
‘Randall!’ Ian said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘If it isn’t the sleuth!’ Malcolm Herrick’s English voice boomed confidently into Kutuzovsky Prospect, scorning discretion. ‘Found Alyosha yet, sport?’
‘Afraid not,’ I said. ‘This is Stephen Luce. A friend. English.’
‘Malcolm Herrick,’ said the Moscow correspondent of The Watch, introducing himself, shaking hands, and waiting for a reaction. None came. He must have been used to it. ‘Moscow correspondent of The Watch,’ he said.
‘Great stuff,’ said Stephen vaguely, obviously not having read a word from the Herrick pen.
‘Are you going to the British Club?’ Ian asked. ‘We’re just on our way there.’
His watchful eyes waited for a reply. There were some replies I saw no harm in giving, and this was one.
‘I came to send a telex,’ I said. ‘Oliver’s suggestion.’
‘The snake,’ Herrick said unexpectedly, narrowing his eyes. ‘He usually gives messages for the telex to the guy in the hall.’
‘And the guy in the hall relays them to you?’ I said.
‘Sources, sources, sport.’ He tapped the side of his nose.
Ian was unmoved. ‘If an answer comes,’ he said to me, ‘I’ll see that you get it.’
‘I’d be grateful.’
‘Where are you going now, sport?’ Malcolm said, loud and direct as always.
‘To the University, with Stephen, for tea.’
‘Tea!’ He made a face. ‘Look, why don’t we meet later for a decent meal? All of us,’ he added expansively, including Ian and Stephen. ‘The Aragvi do you, Ian?’
Ian, who had not reacted visibly to the original suggestion, seemed to find favour with the choice of place, and nodded silently. Malcolm started giving me directions, but Stephen said he knew the way.
‘Great then,’ Malcolm said. ‘Eight-thirty. Don’t be late.’
The faint drizzle which had persisted all day seemed to be intensifying into sleet. It put, anyway, an effective damper on further conversation in the street, and by common consent we split up and went our own ways.
‘Who is the man who looks Russian?’ Stephen asked, ducking his head down and sideways to avoid the stinging drops. ‘The one imitating the Sphinx.’
‘Let’s get that taxi,’ I said, waving to a grey-green car coming with the green light shining for availability in its windscreen.
‘Expensive,’ he protested automatically, slithering into the back seat beside me. ‘Ve vill have to cure this disgusting bourgeois habit.’ He had a rich way of imitating a Russian accent while sardonically putting forward the Russian point of view. ‘Vorkers of the Vorld unite... and go on the metro.’
‘Caviar is immoral,’ I said dryly.
‘Caviar is not bourgeois. Caviar is for everyone who can scrape up a fortune in roubles.’ He considered me, relapsing into ordinary English, ‘Why did you say caviar is immoral? It’s not like you.’