Kyril’s appearance had changed since his visit to Sculby’s offices. Everything from the colour of his hair to the condition of his Bally casuals was different. No one who had only a photograph or a verbal description to go on could possibly have recognised him.
After he had said goodbye to Lucinda Bayliss he walked away without looking back once, leaving her to get on with the job. He was confident that she would not let him down. Kyril instinctively understood business people. He had chosen well there.
By joining one of the conducted tours he was able to build up in his mind a fairly accurate picture of the house. Upstairs, on the top floor, were the private rooms belonging to the family. Kyril wasn’t interested in them. But the west wing was sealed off from the rest of the mansion by solid-looking oak doors, besides which sat a watchful attendant. Kyril subjected him to a long discreet scrutiny and concluded that he was more than a National Trust hack in uniform. So that’s where the treasure was.
He wandered out to the terrace which flanked the south of the house, fixing the topography in his mind. At the west end of the terrace, paving stones had been taken up and a rough barrier erected to discourage the inquisitive, and the ground floor windows all had shutters across them. To the south, several acres of parkland rolled down to the road along which they had come earlier. He swung slowly round. To the east were the formal grounds, looking wasted and forlorn in the grey March light; beyond them an overgrown square of grass bordered by trees, a disused cricket pitch perhaps.
Somewhere inside the house a bell was ringing. Kyril looked at his watch. Three o’clock. They would be closing up, public viewing was restricted during the off-season, and about now Loshkevoi would be meeting Lucinda Bayliss on the other side of the house.
Someone was calling all visitors, reminding them that the house was closing. He did not have much time.
Kyril went in from the terrace and quickly made his way to the staircase. There was no one about. He slipped under the red rope and vanished into the upper regions of the house.
On the top floor he paused and looked about him. He was in a long corridor running the length of the north side of the mansion away from the terrace. Here the doors were of less substantial construction, and everything was covered with a heavy layer of dust. He cocked his head to listen. It was very quiet. He tried one of the doors but it was locked. He knelt down to the keyhole, which afforded a glimpse of off-white dust sheets and packing-cases. It was as he surmised: the family was away, for a long time too, by the look of it.
He stood up and began to pad down the corridor towards the west wing. Long before he came to the partition which blocked off the passage he could see that it was made of solid brick, a clumsy job, not like downstairs where the public went. The builder had simply run the masonry into the centre of a large mullion and coated it with paint.
Kyril rested his back to the partition wall and let himself slide down to his haunches. He needed time to plan the next move.
He had never visited Crowden before, although its functions were known to the London KGB, at least in outline. Unfortunately he had not had access to a plan of the interior, and he was having to rely on guesswork, which made for slow progress.
The light was failing and darkness would come quickly. Soon they would organise a search of the house; he must find deep cover before then. He stood up and retraced his steps along the passage, trying the doors. Most of them were locked but at last one gave under his hand; he looked through it to see a narrow staircase twisting away from him to an upper floor. The servants’ quarters, under the eaves. And where there were eaves, you usually found access to the roof.
There were three rooms at the top of the narrow stairs, and he found what he was looking for in the last one he searched, just as he was starting to feel alarmed. A trapdoor led up into the roofspace. He took it down and with the help of a chair hauled himself through the tight opening.
He would need light. Fortunately he had had the foresight to bring with him a small torch capable of transmitting a thin beam, powerful enough to illuminate the darkest cavity.
Kyril closed his eyes, orientating the house in his mind. West was… over there. He began to crawl, painfully picking his way across the slats. The roof was filthy and before long he was having to stifle a cough. He rested for a moment, and studied the ceiling. Lathe and plaster, nothing unusual about that. No soundproofing… although of course, that might be on the other side. Well, he would have to risk it.
Kyril flashed the beam around. Ah! Another trapdoor, like the one he had come through in the east wing. He began to crawl towards it. When he reached it he laid his ear against the wood and listened.
Not a sound penetrated the constricted space beneath the roof. He ground his teeth. When the time came, that would be the risky part.
Kyril slowly lowered himself to a prone position and strove to make himself as comfortable as possible across the slats. For the moment he was safe. Now he would rest awhile. There was no danger of them leaving the house: wait, he had said, and he knew they would. He’d give them time to become drowsy, off their guard.
It was too painful to sleep. After a while he gave up trying to doze and began to review the plan he had made before leaving London.
Kyril was no longer working for Stanov, or anyone else. He was working for himself. If it had been a matter of simple loyalty, of doing the job, he would have gone back to Moscow in the hope that Lisa had been detected, and reported inability to complete the mission because Loshkevoi was being held incommunicado. However disappointed Stanov might have been at the outcome, he would not have blamed Kyril for something outside his control, no fault of his.
But it was no longer a matter of simple loyalty. Kyril had been lied to, used, squeezed into a role in a play which he never fully understood, one where the script was constantly being rewritten between and behind the scenes. Now he was looking for one thing only. The truth. If he owed Vera nothing else, he owed her that.
Somebody was trying to prevent him from talking to Loshkevoi. The same somebody who was responsible for Vera’s death. But if Sculby could be believed, Loshkevoi was responsible for his own imprisonment, he had pleaded guilty, and that was, it could only have been, on someone’s orders.
Who was Loshkevoi really working for?
However slight the chances of success, he had to make one last effort to see Loshkevoi. Then, well… even in Moscow he had never given much thought to the end of the ride.
After a while he grew bored with his thoughts. He used his torch to illumine the face of his watch. Late. It must be dark outside, the search would be over by now.
Time to go.
He was reluctant. The roof was cramped and stuffy, but it was cosy too – a haven before the last stage of his journey.
He crawled the final few inches to the trapdoor. This was the hard part. This was where it all mattered. Because if he lifted up the trap, and had guessed wrong about this house, a photo-cell beam would break and bring every guard within a mile racing to the top floor…
Kyril pressed down on the wood for greater purchase, clasped the cross-beam, and lifted.