It took Kyril two days to reach Brussels. In western Europe it is easy to cross frontiers undetected and he did not have to show a passport once. On the evening of the second day he laid up in Mont-St-Jean, just below Waterloo, keeping out of sight and catching up on his sleep. His plan looked good, because it was simple. He had learned from his experiences in Athens. Skip the famous ‘hidden assets’, for a start; the KGB would be watching the banks. Instead take the bus to the centre of Brussels, an anonymous face in the morning rush. A quick walk to the Boulevard du Regent, home of the American Consul-General, where the KGB would not expect to see him but where they would be maintaining their usual skeleton watch. Tram to the Gare du Midi, as if to take the Ostende train, shake any tail at the station, with a fallback along the route at some local stop before heading north to Holland, and Breskens, where Kyril could make his own, very private, arrangements for a passage to England. Speed was the essence of success: once he stepped off the bus in the morning rush hour he would not stop moving until he reached the coast at nightfall. As a kind of insurance policy he had started to grow a beard and altered his hairstyle; the reports flowing back to Centre from Athens would bear little resemblance to his present appearance.
But it did not work out like that.
He stepped off the bus in the Gran’ Place, another tourist doing Belgium in the low season, a stranger wrestling to get his bearings in a foreign city. He slowly unshouldered his pack and rummaged for a street-map, his eyes darting hither and thither in search of watchers. There were none, but he did not expect them. The regulars would be monitoring the places they always monitored, every day, without imagination or flair. And on the boulevards, in the squares, along the bustling streets… there would be one irregular killer, the man sent to assassinate Kyril before he could put a finger on the traitor…
He pushed the thought out of his mind. He had to make a move. Innocent tourists did not spend the whole day in the Gran’ Place, they saw sights. He folded his map like a man who has made up his mind and moved off in the direction of the Rue Royale.
The killer was not there, not yet. That would come later, in England.
Keep moving. Never present the same profile twice. Hug crowds. Stay away from the edge of the road… Extracts from his training lectures, years old. ‘If you are lucky you will hear the very high-pitched song of the bullet, somewhere between a whine and a hum. You must learn to identify it. There is no sensation to equal it. Your life will change…’
Stay with people. No alleys, no side-streets, no short-cuts down deserted passages. Do everything lawfully. No jaywalking, nothing to justify an ‘arrest’ by someone who might be a genuine policeman but probably was not.
He took it slowly, changing direction every few blocks and varying his pace to suit the flow of pedestrians on either side. After a while he knew he had company.
He frowned. That was bad luck. For the next ten minutes or so he studied the pattern while ostensibly continuing to drift aimlessly along the boulevard. There were two of them; a young girl with a dog and a man in soldier’s uniform. They were good at the job but to Kyril’s experienced eye it stood out a mile that they had been programmed by KGB instructors. He shrugged. Better them than the British.
Something about the tail pattern told Kyril that they were not sure of his identity, not yet. For a second he agonised, longing to pack it in and break for the coast but knowing it was wrong. Moscow Centre – and Stanov – had to be certain that he had arrived in Brussels.
He was nearing the Boulevard du Regent.
‘Pardon me, can I ask you something…?’
The lilting, unmistakably American drawl caused Kyril to look up sharply and see a woman planted squarely in his path, street-plan fluttering in her hand. Mid-West, middle-aged; bespectacled; lost… harmless.
As he prepared a few words of French with which to give her the brush-off he felt a tap on the shoulder and instinctively wheeled round before his conscious mind could stop him. In the same second the ‘lost’ American tourist clamped herself to his side, suddenly developing a grip of steel; the second agent took up an identical stance on Kyril’s right; a car screeched to a halt and all four doors burst open. He had a sudden confused vision of the crankshaft case rushing towards him, his chin jarred on the floor and for a second he passed out. Then a blanket was thrown over his head and he was suffocating. He screamed, but the noise was stifled in the heavy folds of material enveloping his head. He panicked and began to struggle, but strong hands held him down. His heart was pounding in his chest and a terrible roaring filled his ears. The more he struggled the worse it became.
Kyril knew the first seconds of the rough disengagement of death. Then he was pulled upright and the blanket was snatched from his head. He gasped for breath. He could see nothing, his eyes were blurred. His heart-beat began to lessen. Slowly his head cleared. The car was racing along a broad avenue, the sun was shining, the radio was playing pop music. Kyril swayed, grabbed the front seat to steady himself and was sick. Someone exclaimed and opened the window to let out the smell. Another man tossed him the blanket and indicated that he should wipe up the mess.
‘Sorry about that, fella,’ he said. ‘But you were looking kinda lost back there. Guess I’d better introduce myself. Nat McQueen, CIA.’ He grinned. ‘You made it, buddy.’
For a few moments Kyril covered his confusion by bundling up the pile of vomit in the blanket. He did not speak until he was quite ready.
‘Am I glad I found you. The KGB had me staked out back there.’
The man called McQueen laughed. He sounded pleased with himself.
‘That soldier guy was so excited when he saw you he almost wet his pants. But you were okay. We’d look after you.’
Kyril inspected his face. The man seemed honest enough. He turned to look at the passenger on the other side of him and recognised the ‘tourist’. When she smiled at him he smiled back, and settled down in his seat, feeling the other two relax as he did so. The tension was fast draining out of the situation. He was supposed to be defecting to the West with precious documents, and he had made it…
Inside, however, he was seething. In all their calculations he and Stanov had completely overlooked the CIA. With benefit of hindsight Kyril couldn’t understand how they could have made such an incredible mistake. The British worked on a shoe-string, their resources abroad were minimal. What could be more natural than for them to ask the CIA to lend a hand, with their superior technology and limitless manpower? Or perhaps… no, surely not, surely the CIA wouldn’t decide to take a hand anyway, without consulting SIS? Kyril closed his eyes and tried to see through the countless possible permutations.
But not for long. Escape: that was the important thing. Progress was fast; with every second his chances of making a break diminished. Soon they would be in open country and then he was finished.
Kyril stole a glance out of the window. The car was travelling north-west along the Avenue de la Reine, towards Laeken. Soon they must cross over the Bassin Vergote. There was a chance… but a mortally dangerous one. Kyril quietly ground his teeth.
Make friends. Put them off their guard.
‘Where are you taking me, please?’
‘One of our airbases. There’s a plane coming for you. This time tomorrow you’ll be in Washington.’
Kyril allowed a look of anxiety to play over his face.
‘You say a plane is coming. Can’t we leave at once, please? How long must we wait?’
‘Not long. We didn’t know where you were going to show up, see? Planes have to be cleared in advance; this is some of the most crowded airspace in the world. Don’t worry, fella. We’ll take good care of you.’
‘Please, you do not understand. My life is in danger. They have orders to kill me.’
‘Don’t worry.’ McQueen’s voice was reassuring. ‘No one’s out to kill you, buddy-boy. They just want your hide back in Moscow. Once we get to where we’re going they haven’t a chance in hell.’
‘Where are we going?’
McQueen smiled but did not reply. By now Kyril was almost fawning on him.
‘Please… when we get there, let’s stay in the open. Guard me as much as you like, but don’t coop me up, eh?’
‘Okay, fella. Why’ncha just relax and enjoy the ride?’
Kyril sat back slowly. His lips were dry. They had almost reached the long, low bridge over the neck of the Bassin Vergote. Every agent is taught how to throw himself from a rapidly moving vehicle. No agent ever does it willingly.
There was the bridge.
Kyril shut his eyes and drew a deep breath.
‘Are we being followed?’
The driver glanced in his rear-view mirror and shook his head.
Kyril swivelled in his seat and pretended to stare out of the back window.
‘That red Fiat… I’ve seen it before today. The registration’s the same.’
McQueen and the woman turned to look. In the same instant Kyril hurled himself at the nearside door and flung it open, pitching forward with all his might. He had a glimpse of the road coming up at an ugly angle, a tremendous shock ran the length of his spine, then he was rolling in the dust, over and over… Through a red haze he made out the steel bridge wall. Somehow he was on his feet, not only upright but running. Confused noises behind him… toot of a barge’s siren below… let, oh let there be clear water…
After the shock of the initial icy plunge he seemed to go down and down for ever. He couldn’t move. For an eternity of time he hung suspended in a cold, thick, muddy-brown mixture of sewage and oil; then he was rising, very slowly, the sky above lightened, and suddenly his head broke water and he could no longer put off the increasingly painful business of struggling to stay alive.
He heard McQueen shout ‘Get him!’, and knew he had been spotted. Kyril trod water, desperately looking round for help. His rucksack was weighing him down, his strength was deserting him. He had drifted about 50 metres from the bridge. Opposite him a long line of barges was slowly travelling north on the way to Antwerp; the leading tug’s siren was the last sound he had heard before hitting the water. The end barge was almost past him now. Attached to it by a painter was a small dinghy, scarcely big enough to hold a man. Kyril struck out for it.
At first he seemed to make no impression at all on the water. Invisible ropes attached to his pack were pulling him down, down… He began to panic. The last barge was well past him now, and he was still several metres from the dinghy. He thrashed hard and was rewarded with a mouthful of wash from the tug. Choking and spluttering he fought to keep his head above water. Surely he must be moving. No one could struggle as hard as that and not move…
His fingers scraped on something solid. The boat… It was passing him, going away out of his reach. No! He scrabbled desperately for a hold, got it… and next second almost let go as the momentum of the convoy picked him up and swept him onwards towards Antwerp, towards the sea.
He dragged himself out of the water with slow, laborious movements, and looked back. A small crowd of people had gathered on the bridge, among them McQueen and the anonymous American woman. They made no move to follow him. It would have been hopeless in any case. Kyril was passing through a Gehenna of bleak, dock badlands, where such few roads as there were ended in cul-de-sacs, crumbling warehouse walls, railway sidings… he turned to face the front and saw no signs aboard the tug that anyone had noticed him.
As the convoy chugged onwards beneath a cold, stony sky Kyril lay down on the bottom of the dinghy and fell into an exhausted sleep.