‘We always thought Kyril was only a moderate performer. But he’s good. He’s very good indeed.’
C stood at the window looking out over the Thames, his spectacles dangling loosely in his hands. He seemed distracted. Royston bit his tongue and refrained from snapping at his chief. ‘I know that,’ he wanted to shriek. ‘I don’t need an old fool like you to tell me that we’ve lost him, perhaps for ever…’
Royston had not been sleeping well. His doctor prescribed a course of Tuinal, and at first the tablets helped. Now Royston was almost back to where he started: a period of sleep between midnight and two, followed by a long drift into wakefulness and uneasy dreams. Jenny was concerned. So was Royston.
‘You could step up surveillance on the Bradfield woman,’ said the Head of the Inquisition. ‘She’ll be out of hospital tomorrow.’
Royston turned smouldering eyes on him, but remained silent. In the good old days, if the London Station-Chief had a good idea he’d go along for a chat with Maurice Oldfield, who’d be as likely to talk about cricket as anything else and make him feel in ten minutes that it was worth £2700 a year. Christ, thought Royston savagely, to think we used to live on that. No London weighting then… and no bloody kitchen cabinets, either; no interminable discussions, always ending with a reference back to Accounts and Audit…
‘And this other man, Loshkevoi,’ put in the Senior Planner. ‘If Nidus is right in supposing that Kyril wants to see him, for whatever reason, I was wondering whether it might not be a good idea to propose a joint venture to someone with superior capacity… the CIA, now…’ Royston twisted sharply in his chair and the Head of the Inquisition tut-tutted. Only Sir Richard Bryant did not move or say anything, but continued to stare out of the window.
‘I think that Edward’s well-known preference for liaising at every level with the Cousins should not be allowed to cloud the fact that this is, ah, essentially a domestic matter.’
‘I agree,’ said Royston, mildly surprised to find himself supporting the Head of the Inquisition for once.
‘And so do I.’
C’s voice was very gentle.
‘There’s been far too much noise as it is. Soviet agents under trains… Once we invoke the Cousins we’ll find them wanting participation rights. It’s happened before.’
He turned to face the room and Royston saw that his face was dark with trouble.
‘You probably do not know – there is no reason why you should – the terms on which Nidus is reimbursed. He is a man of some principle. At his own request, his monthly stipend is paid directly into a numbered UNICEF bank account in Geneva. For reasons into which I have never inquired, dollars, in any shape or form…’
C’s voice was at its most austerely chill.
‘…are not acceptable. No, gentlemen: leave the Americans out of this.’
C resumed his seat behind the desk.
‘Bradfield and Loshkevoi: they are your immediate targets. Watch them and eventually Kyril will cross your line of sight.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Damn the expense; take what you need.’
He nodded to indicate that the meeting was over, and two of the other men present at once stood up. Royston remained stubbornly rooted to his chair. C raised an inquiring eyebrow and tilted his head slightly.
‘I need a few moments with you alone, please.’
Royston felt that in his present exhausted state he would have had to submit to anything C said or did. The relief he experienced when Bryant waved the other two out found tangible expression through all the taut muscles of his aching body.
‘If we’re going to get him… I mean, get him properly, nail him down… I need a nugget.’
‘Yes. I thought it might be that.’
‘Nugget’ was a Service euphemism for a lure. It could take many forms: a woman, money, political asylum.
‘Kyril was very high,’ Royston continued, keeping his eyes fixed on C’s face. ‘Stanov’s man. I need something he can identify with – a piece of information only the Chairman or his assistant would be likely to know. Something… rare.’
‘Rare in the sense of precious. Quite so. A shibboleth.’
Royston’s eyes widened. He had not expected such a sympathetic hearing. ‘Yes, that’s it. Something to show we’re two of a kind.’
C said nothing. That look of trouble had returned to his normally placid face. Royston became conscious of a hollow, faintly nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t face breakfast these days, not since it first crossed his mind that during his recent spell in Dzerzhinsky Square Kyril might have learned a lot more about a man called Royston than C ever knew.
‘Did you have anything specific in mind?’
‘I did, as a matter of fact. There used to be an executive arm of the Kremlin on which we could never get any hard information. Maybe things have changed since my Moscow-watching days, I don’t know. Some kind of inspectorate. The members had to swear a special oath of allegiance to a plenary session of the Politburo. Strictly for officers only. It went under several names. The one I remember was Kremlin Kommandant.’
‘Used to be…?’
This response puzzled Royston. Why was C prevaricating?
‘Still is, I’m sure. If my contact-man could persuade Kyril that he’s a member of the Kommandant…’
C stood up and turned his back on Royston. The air of restless trouble had now overlaid his entire manner. Royston’s puzzlement grew. What was wrong? For Christ’s sake, what did they know? What did Kyril know?
‘The Kremlin Kommandant still exists, yes; nothing has changed. Brezhnev’s personal inspectorate: the spies who watch the spies. Their powers are almost unfettered. But you’re asking a lot. There is only one source for a secret of that magnitude. If it became known that a western intelligence agency had penetrated it, well…’
Royston leaned forward.
‘But if that source you mention was himself in danger… if the Chairman of the KGB was on the point of capturing a man who could unmask him…’
C wheeled round.
‘You underestimate Nidus,’ he said curtly. ‘We cannot dictate to him. He helps me in fits and starts, at his own pleasure, and usually only in the gravest of emergencies. I doubt very much whether personal considerations would play any part in his decision to give or withhold the information you seek.’
‘You seem very sure of that…’
Royston made no attempt to keep the cynicism out of his voice. The two hard points of C’s gaze dissolved, went hazy and out of focus.
‘Yes,’ he said. Then, after a long pause – ‘I am very sure.’
Royston stood up too quickly and suffered a momentary penalty of giddiness. For a scintilla of time he wanted to say, ‘By the way, just who is Nidus?’; then sanity returned. If he ever chose to ruin everything he could do it in much finer style than that.
‘I will do my very best for you,’ said C. ‘I understand your point of view. I regard it as having validity.’
He nodded dismissively. On his way out Royston heard him say, ‘This is not a time for illness. I need fit men. Try to take a day’s leave.’
A holiday, thought Royston as he rode down in the lift.
That’s what I need. Twenty years in which to think things over…