The crypt was exactly as Kyril remembered it. Plain, whitewashed walls, tatty strips of carpet, red lights glowing outside closed doors. The central room, what was it called? ‘Grocer’s Gift.’ Kyril had never understood that name. Nursing a cup of sweet tea he looked around with a tinge of nostalgia. The people here were so nice, so kind. The lady in reception had asked him if he minded waiting until someone was free. No, said Kyril, he didn’t mind. He had all the time in the world.
The Samaritans were a unique find. Every agent has his personal trade secrets, things which he never reports back to Centre or shares with others. The Wallbrook headquarters of the Samaritans was one of Kyril’s little personal treasures. He had used it only once before but he had great faith in it. You went down the steps and immediately became anonymous. You didn’t have to give a name or an address, although one usually did in order not to be conspicuous; Kyril had told them his name was Ian, just that. Then after a decent interval one disappeared through the man-sized ventilator at the back of the centre corridor, the only fire escape on the premises… and that was that.
But not today. Today was different.
Kyril pulled Trumper’s macintosh a little more snugly over his shoulders. Getting the right build had been the most difficult thing; that and trying to emulate a stooping walk which he had never actually seen in life. The first problem he had solved by wrapping himself in several of the old man’s woollies. The walk he had left to chance.
After disposing of Sikarov he had dropped down into the flat below through his trapdoor. The old man lived in conditions of extreme poverty; it was not much of a life to leave, thought Kyril. He concentrated on clothing. When he had removed all that was wearable from the bedroom he began to rummage through drawers, jackdaw-like, in search of anything useful. There was a pair of dark glasses in a newish case, perhaps prescribed by that bugger of a doctor, but not worn, out of pride. Kyril pocketed them. The white stick was also useful. In height he and the old man were not dissimilar; cotton wool and hair dye would go a long way towards perfecting the substitution. He knew the power of ‘type’: a watcher would see only a white stick and dark glasses, say the word ‘blind’ to himself, and look elsewhere for the elusive Russian agent he was supposed to be seeking.
From the depths of his rucksack Kyril extracted a small, lightweight box containing his make-up. He had brought nothing special, just the most basic kit for emergencies, but it was enough. By inserting pads of cottonwool into his cheeks and moving them around with his fingers he was soon able to fashion a face the same shape as the dead man’s. Kyril shared Trumper’s weather-beaten complexion so he did nothing with that, trusting the dark glasses, scarf and hat to cut down to a minimum the area of skin that could be used for comparative purposes. Thereafter it was a simple matter of high-lighting and ageing, with particular attention to the corners of the eyes, the neck and, last but most important, the hands.
Next came the difficult bit. He had to assume Trumper’s walk, but he had almost no idea what it looked like. The thick cane was the only real indication he had to go on: it was used to support the bearer as well as warn others that he was blind. So it would pay to go slowly, rather than risk going too fast. Kyril had ‘played blind’ before, he knew all the business with the stick, but the rest he was going to have to chance.
The worst part had been waiting for the noises next door which would indicate that the girl was on her way out. Kyril used the time to ensure that he had forgotten nothing. His rucksack was stripped of its contents and discarded, everything of value now being secreted on Kyril’s person. Then he stood in the hall, listening with all his might. At last he heard the tell-tale sounds: a door slammed in the adjoining house and footsteps thudded down the stairs. The girl pulled the front door to behind her and turned to see old Mr Trumper almost on the pavement.
From then on it had been easy. In a different frame of mind Kyril would have enjoyed the casual, dismissive glance which was all the MI6 agent in the street could afford. But today what mattered was escape. He discarded the white stick and the glasses behind some bushes on the Common, then made his way to Bank by tube. Now here he was, safe for a time. They would never think of looking for him here.
He looked around. For some reason things looked different. Kyril couldn’t think what it was. Then he remembered.
‘Excuse me…’ A young woman was passing his chair.
‘Yes?’
‘The cats, are they still here? You called them Push and Pull, I remember them so well.’
‘Oh they died, I’m afraid.’
Kyril’s face fell. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘I’ve been away, you see.’
‘Can I help you?’
Kyril looked up to see that a young man had come to stand by his chair. The woman used the opportunity to slip away while Kyril studied the man’s face and his badge. ‘John 1696’, they never told you the surname. The security here was excellent, they would have made good spies.
‘I’d like to talk to somebody.’
‘Please. Come this way. We’ll go into “Godfrey”.’
Kyril followed the young man into the cubicle, sat down in an old armchair from which the stuffing had mostly escaped, and folded his hands in his lap. He was conscious of the young man’s eyes upon him, and behind those eyes he knew that John 1696 was busily attaching labels. Shabby clothes. Old tramp. Query drunk, or just here for the hand-out.
‘I don’t really know how to begin.’ He tailed off. The young man leaned forward.
‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘There’s absolutely no hurry.’ Kyril pretended to study his hands. ‘You see, the trouble is… it all seems so implausible.’
The young man shook his head and smiled. ‘We’re used to hearing all kinds of things here. It never goes any further.’ After a further period of reflection Kyril began his story. ‘I must tell you first that I am a spy. I am a colonel in the KGB, attached to the staff of its Chairman. I have been sent to England on a very delicate mission – to expose a traitor in our ranks. What I think you call a “mole”, no?’
The young man sat back, his smile intact. ‘Goodness,’ he said. ‘I’ve never met a real spy before.’
‘There aren’t many of us. Now you see, my problem is this. The mole has sent an executioner after me. He’s outside there now, in the street. He’s armed, of course. And the question is, what am I to do?’
The young man appeared to be lost in thought. After a while he spoke. ‘There’s somebody here who I think could help you more than I can. Somebody who’s, er, used to this kind of thing.’
‘Really? You mean, he’s a spy too?’
‘Not exactly. He’s a… well, a doctor, actually.’
Kyril nodded. ‘Perhaps I could talk to him, then.’
The young man stood up.
‘Please wait here. I shan’t be a moment.’
He went out, closing the door behind him very firmly. Kyril smiled. It would take John 1696 quite a while to brief the resident psychiatrist on the latest nutter and there was a good chance that he would warn everyone else to stay away from ‘Godfrey’ until ‘Ian’ had been dealt with. He could spin this out for a while yet. First there would be the long, circuitous questioning designed to establish what the real problem was; then, later in the day, he would persuade them to find him a hostel for the night. Meanwhile there was time to think…
Stanov’s moving magnet had come to the very end of the road. Either the traitor stood revealed by now or the plan had failed: Kyril had no means of knowing. Three times he had shown himself on schedule; three times he had evaded capture. ‘Lisa’s’ executioner… executed. That left only Loshkevoi. The biggest question-mark of all…
Other images crowded into Kyril’s tired brain.
An old man locked into a stuffy office overlooking Dzerzhinsky Square, who lied to his own men and spun fine webs from the ruthlessly mangled lives of people he despised…
A younger man on a bed, half-concealing a bloody corpse…
An anonymous traitor who must be destroyed so that his very name was blotted out…
Kyril closed his eyes and sat back in the old, tattered chair. His head had begun to ache. It was going to be a long, long day.