Povin nearly always woke up early, even at weekends. This Sunday he opened his eyes to find a bar of sunlight lying across his face and he blinked, surprised; did that mean spring would be early this year?
He slid out of bed and went to stand at the window whence he could look out over his neighbours’ roof-tops. Povin had long ago become entitled to occupy a larger flat on the second floor but he preferred the tiny suite of rooms tucked under the eaves for what in any case he regarded merely as a pied-à-terre. The sky was a bright, cloudless blue. He opened the window and took a deep breath of fresh air, cold as ether.
Somewhere, far away, a church bell was ringing.
He closed the windows reluctantly. That was an illegal, if frequent occurrence, and the outcome was always the same. Soon the bell would stop, the arrests and interrogations begin. Povin didn’t want to think about that.
He was used to this flat. ‘My penthouse’ he called it, with a rueful smile, but the accommodation, which was cramped and tiny, belied such a grand description. A bedroom just large enough to hold the single bed, a living-room too small to do his Grundig stereo justice, kitchen fitted out with a microwave oven and precious little else; bathroom with no bath, only a shower. It was enough for the nights during the week. When he entertained he used the dacha in Zhukovka, which he regarded as ‘home’, and it was on the dacha that he spent his money.
He went across to the record-player and put on the Bruch No 1 violin concerto, played by Perlman, one of Povin’s few HMV recordings. A rare exception to his normal collecting policy, he preferred it to the Deutsche Grammophon version by Oistrakh.
In the kitchen he made himself tea and examined the interior of the small, old fashioned refrigerator. He ate only a biscuit smothered with tvorog, the stodgy cottage cheese of the peasants. Povin was due to lunch at the Armed Forces Officers Club with a colleague and he found that nowadays he couldn’t manage too much food early if he was going to eat a big meal later. The Club was worth saving up your appetite for: it served the best zakuski in Moscow. Povin loved hors d’oeuvres, and rarely bothered with a second course if they were good, especially when the milk-mushrooms were in season.
He went back to the living-room with a second glass of tea, still wearing only his dressing-gown and slippers, and sat down to listen to the music. He missed being in the country at weekends. Yesterday, however, he had been lucky enough to obtain a ticket for the ballet, and today there was an offer of a free lunch, a commodity as difficult to come by in the East as in the West, so Povin had decided to break his routine. He was not altogether sorry. In Zhukovka someone was always giving a party or dropping by for a chat, and what he wanted most of all was time to be alone and think.
For reasons which he could not explain to himself he felt strangely relaxed. Perhaps it was the false calm at the eye of the hurricane, but that did not matter; for the moment at least he was sure he was safe.
It was a feeling hard to justify in rational terms, he reflected as he stirred his tea. The picture was fairly straightforward now. Stanov knew there was a traitor and, broadly, where to look for him. Bucharensky might or might not figure in Stanov’s scheme of things, Povin wasn’t certain. He was probably just a pawn, used by Stanov in an attempt to provoke his suspects into panic. Povin long ago decided to discount the diary. If Kyril was really in a position to unmask a traitor he would have stayed and earned his promotion accordingly, not run halfway across Europe to the very people who were supposed to control their agent in Dherzhinsky Square. Unless… Povin frowned. Unless, of course, he was looking for final proof. But in any case, as long as he could be sure of neutralising Kyril there was no particular need to worry; all he had to do was lie low and demonstrate his continuing loyalty to the Politburo with every passing day. And whatever Bucharensky’s function, he would shortly cease to be a factor in the equation. Povin had great faith in Sikarov. If anyone asked questions later, well, it was Michaelov’s decision to send Sikarov to England, not Povin’s.
From his comfortable armchair high above the Moscow roof-tops, things were looking, if not good, at least not so bad. What could he do to make them even better? The question gave Povin a momentary sense of frustration. All that power at his fingertips, power over life and death, and yet so little effect…
Loshkevoi.
Povin put down his empty glass and went to turn the record over.
It would be better if Bucharensky and Loshkevoi did not meet. Loshkevoi could not identify Povin directly, he certainly did not realise that the general was a double-agent, but still he represented a risk. He must be put out of circulation for a while… yes, maybe that was the answer. Somewhere in Dzerzhinsky Square there was a legal department – of sorts. Povin made a mental note for action on Monday morning. ‘English legal system.’
The word ‘English’ spoken quietly in his own mind sent Povin off at a tangent. Suddenly the day seemed less sunny, less relaxed. New problems all the time…
He went to the bathroom, leaving the door ajar for the sake of the music, and began to shave. What was he going to do about Bryant’s request?
When Povin first read the message he almost laughed aloud, would have done if he were not so astonished at being presented with a request for aid which had not been volunteered. But then he had thought – well, and why not?
It was that ‘why not’ which troubled him as he lathered his face. To respond to Bryant’s request would be dangerous folly at the best of times. But now, with Kyril on the loose and Stanov perhaps watching his generals’ every move, it would be nothing short of suicidal.
Why, then, did the memory of his talk with Stolyinovich on the night of the party haunt him so? ‘Do you ever feel that we could do more?’ – those had been his own words. ‘No,’ said the pianist, flatly rejecting the philosophical tangle behind the apparently simple question. And yet… and yet…
There was so much that Povin might do if he had a mind. Royston, for example: strategically by far and away the most important ‘gain’ the KGB had ever made within the United Kingdom. Povin had not underestimated his importance when he told Michaelov that the destruction of Royston would devastate their British operation for at least ten years. All it needed was one word from Povin to Bryant… No, these were foolish, wayward thoughts. Why should he jeopardise himself by making such a revelation? The same applied to Bryant’s request for information about the Kommandant.
Povin patted his face dry with a towel and considered his reflection in the mirror. Not bad for 55, he decided: the skin had kept most of its tension and his complexion was clear. But that melancholy gaze… where had it come from, and when? Povin shrugged and smiled a faint smile, knowing that it had been there since his early days in the Komsomol, when he first became conscious of a sense of loss, of not quite having found the answer. But at least the pale grey eyes were fearless; they stared back at him without flinching from their knowledge of what lay behind the facade.
Povin went back to the bedroom and stood for a few moments with his head bent in prayer. He never felt quite able to kneel down, here in Moscow, the hub of the KGB’s massive wheel of power. With the passing of the years he paid less and less attention to the outward flummeries. Throughout the centuries soldiers had always stood to pray, and Povin was a soldier. He wore a uniform. And he stood on guard. Always.
He dressed quickly, keeping an anxious eye on the weather. The sky was still blue, and when he looked out of the window again the air actually felt warmer. He craned down to survey the little corner of Kutuzovsky Prospekt which was visible from ‘the penthouse’. It was only eight o’clock and there were few pedestrians on the street at that hour. Good. He fancied a walk, a long walk. He decided to strike out in the direction of Izmailovo Park and see how far he could get before 10.30, when he would turn back in order to keep his lunch appointment.
There were no watchers, as far as he could see. He wasn’t sure whether Stanov had actually got as far as to have the KGB generals followed; in the past year he had sometimes thought one thing, sometimes another, and on balance had written off his fears as groundless. But if there had been surveillance in the past, he was almost sure that it prevailed no longer. Now the only danger was Stanov himself and his beastly dog.
As Povin rode down in the lift he was making contingency plans for evasive action. When Stanov’s wife died two years ago the old man bought himself a dog for company, a mongrel of scruffy appearance and uncertain temper. Sometimes when Povin went out early he ran into Stanov exercising the brute along Kutuzovsky Prospekt, and this invariably resulted in an invitation to breakfast with the lonely marshal. Povin disliked pets. They interfered with his fastidious standards of personal hygiene and comfort. To sit in Stanov’s overheated first-floor apartment sniffing old man and stale dog through the rich flavour of freshly ground coffee was almost more than he could stomach, but he knew it would be impolitic to refuse.
Povin stepped cautiously into the street and looked to right and left. All clear. He strode away from the discreet entrance of the block of flats, pulling on his gloves. He would think about Sir Richard Bryant’s request on his walk. Eight-thirty. Allowing for the time difference, the Englishman would soon be getting up, ready for early mass. As a devotee of the Tridentine rite he was finding it harder and harder to satisfy the spiritual yearnings which were his major point of contact with Povin. So much for religious freedom. In Dzerzhinsky Square they knew of this difficulty, just as they knew most other things about the private and public lives of the head of the British Secret Intelligence Service. Povin smiled to himself. Poor Sir Richard. Yes, he would definitely give his request for information about the Kommandant the most serious attention.
Povin had reached the end of the Prospekt, and there was still no sign of either Stanov or his wretched cur. It was going to be all right, thought Povin as he strode off across the road. If by the grace of God he could only manage to keep his head, everything was going to be just fine.