At Prague they walked unmolested from the international transit area to the domestic side. There stood a lone individual, clearly looking out for them. No heavies, no Slavic muscle, just one man in his late thirties in a well-cut single-breasted blue suit looking more like the Liberal candidate in a rural English bye-election than a KGB officer. All he lacked was a rosette.
“Mr. Dalton, Mr. Craig, I am Yevgeni Ivanovich Dragomirov.” He held out a manicured right hand. “A pleasure to meet you both.”
Maclean shook the hand, but said nothing.
Burgess shook and asked, “We weren’t at school together by any chance? You look awfully like a fag I used to have at Eton.”
Dragomirov laughed softly.
“No, Mr. Dalton. We have no fags in the Soviet Union.”
Maclean said suddenly, as though waking from a trance, “We’re not actually in the Soviet Union though, are we?”
Dragomirov seemed to read his mind.
“No. But you’re safe now. Believe me, you are safe.”
“And me?” Burgess said.
“You too are safe. Whether you go back or join us on the flight to Moscow.”
“Do I have a choice?”
Dragomirov gestured with a sweep of his hand to the almost empty concourse.
“Of course. There are no hidden guards. I’m not even armed. You have done … as you might say … sterling work, Mr. Dalton, but it’s over and we are grateful and if you wish to leave no one will stop you.”
Maclean coughed once into his fist.
“I’m grateful too, Guy. I know I’ve been a bit of a wet blanket … but y’know … couldn’t be helped.”
Burgess looked from the one to the other. The dishevelled ragbag that was Maclean, the Burton’s showroom dummy that was Dragomirov.
“I’ve come this far. I might as well see a bit of Russia. A couple of weeks away won’t do any harm. All I have waiting for me in England is the sodding dole queue. It can just wait a bit longer. What’s a fortnight in June … it’s a holiday, isn’t it?”
Looking back, years later, he was shocked at the ease with which he’d made the decision.