Tuesday, July 18, 1950
Troy sat at his desk. The Manchester Guardian spread out in front of him.
From our Moscow Correspondent:
Méret Voytek, the Austrian cellist who vanished from her London home nearly two years ago, was seen in public yesterday for the first time since her disappearance and her exposure in this and other papers as an agent of the Soviet government.
At a ceremony in the Kremlin, Miss Voytek was awarded two medals by Deputy Prime Minister Bulganin: Hero of the Soviet Union [Герой Cоветского Союза] and People’s Artist of the USSR [Народный артист СССР].
The USSR has never admitted that Voytek was an agent. And while the Artist’s award might be considered self-evident, the award of Hero of the Soviet Union might also be considered an admission that her services to the USSR went somewhat beyond playing the cello.
Her Majesty’s government had no one available for comment.
Troy wondered how strong his pact with a drunken Burgess really was. Of course, sooner or later she had been bound to surface, and when she did she’d strain Burgess’s sense of secrecy as his overwhelming sense of curiosity took over. He had occasionally wondered if Burgess had understood the pact. He had been loth to spell it out. He thought it simple enough. If Moscow learnt that Troy, a Scotland Yard CID inspector, had helped Voytek escape, then sooner or later they would conclude that she had denounced herself—the balance of doubt would never be in her favour—and her life wouldn’t be worth two kopecks.
Troy’s deputy, Jack Wildeve, stuck his head around the door.
“Chap on the phone for you. Jack or Jim somebody. Northern accent. Didn’t give a surname.”
“Then why should I talk to him?”
“Well … he did give a surname, just not his own. Burgess.”
Oh fuck. So soon?
“Put him through.”
“Freddie … Jack Hewit here.”
Burgess’s live-in. Troy could not abide him. He’d always struck Troy as a cross between Uriah Heep and Count Dracula.
“Are you free on Friday evening? A bit of a do for Guy.”
Another one? They came around as regularly as a 38 bus.
“A farewell do, as a matter of fact.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Guy’s been posted to Washington. Second Secretary at our embassy. He’ll be off in a matter of days. Anyway. Seven thirty Friday. All the old crowd will be there and he’d love to see you.”
Old crowd? Was he part of an old crowd? God forbid.
And what lunatic in the Foreign Office thought Washington was a fit posting for Burgess?