Moscow: Later the Same Day
A hotel balcony somewhere near the Kremlin A pleasing sunset
“Is this vodka any good? I’ve never really had much of a taste for the stuff.”
“Seems OK, but there’s vodka and vodka, isn’t there? I mean … some chaps prefer a blended whisky and know not the joys of Laphroaig or Glenthingy.”
“Morangie. It’s Glenmorangie not Glenthingy.”
“Scottish pedant.”
“If you say so, you Sassenach prick.”
(pause)
“Two weeks, you said?”
“Did I?”
“In Prague. You said two weeks. A bit of a break. A holiday.”
“So I did. Might make it a month. June’s the silly season. Everyone I know will either be at Broadstairs or Bognor.”
“You know people who take holidays in Bognor?”
“Course I don’t. It’s a metawotsit, isn’t it. I mean … you can never get hold of a chap in summer for one reason or another and if I’m to land a job when I get back … Telegraph, Economist, even Punch … I’ll need to call in a few favours.”
“People owe you favours?”
“Come to think of it. Probably not. I might have recourse to a bit of blackmail.”
“Do you mean the queer thing?”
“I suppose I do. After all, I know half the arse bandits in London.”
(pause)
“You’d do that? Blackmail some bloke you’ve done the nasty with?”
“Probably not.”
“So it was just another metaphor?”
“I suppose it was. I’ve got to do something. More vodka?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
(pause)
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“What will you do?”
“Oh, Russia will find me something, and whatever it is, I’m going to have to look very co-operative if I’m to get Melinda and the kids out of England.”
“But you’re safe now.”
“Oh yes. Safe but suspect. The game is still afoot.”
(pause)
“Speaking of which. Look down there.”
“At what?”
“All those people. Milling around like ants. Right now that’s MI5 and Special Branch, blindly milling around. Insects with no sense of direction. Looking for you everywhere. Dover, Calais …”
“Broadstairs.”
“Bognor.”
The mention of Bognor, even on his own lips, set Burgess giggling like a schoolboy. Infectious. Maclean caught it, grinned, sniggered and laughed out loud—spattering vodka out over the balcony. The two of them—laughing like idiots until some inner comedian cued them simultaneously and they yelled into the warm night air of Moscow, “Bugger Bognor!”