One of the many spending cuts ordered by the Politburo involved an across-the-board reduction in staff. The Time and Motion people decreed that a particularly fruitful area for curtailment of overmanning was the nightshift, when little of importance came into Centre but the same number of employees sat around talking or playing cards. (High among the reasons for Michaelov’s unpopularity with his subordinates was an irritating habit of coming in unexpectedly late at night and finding the duty officers monitoring Radio Luxembourg.) Now only two men staffed Radio Operations between eight at night and six the following morning, and they had little to do. The telex machine had vastly reduced the amount of cipher-traffic passing between Moscow and its far-flung embassies: a telex could be delivered at any time and unless it was urgent no one need read it until morning. Thus in another small respect did the KGB approximate more closely to the huge, inefficient capitalist conglomerates which it was dedicated to destroy.
Immediately beneath the small Union Jack which designated UK Sector two clocks showed the time in Moscow and London: nine and seven o’clock respectively.
One of the two officers on duty in Rad. Ops, had gone to the canteen for his break, leaving his colleague to concentrate on Playboy. He sat with his feet propped up on the desk in front of him, strategically placed to see if a ‘call’ sign lit up anywhere along the bank of receivers which lined the far wall of the European Division. When a ‘pig’ hissed through the pneumatic system and thudded into his In tray he did not hurry to pick it up. Without taking his eyes from the centrefold spread out on his knees he unscrewed the top of the canister and felt for the message. Something else rolled out, an inch of evil-smelling black ash, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. Something about the smell was familiar. He took a quick glance at the message, saw the green paper of the First Main Directorate with Michaelov’s squiggle under ‘Authorisation Code’, and sat up abruptly, the magazine forgotten.
It was a long message and the transmission instructions were detailed and precise. It consisted of 49 groups with a specific but different number of seconds being allowed to elapse between each group. The transmission had to begin at exactly 2123 Moscow Time. That meant a computer job. The radio operator looked up at the clocks and swore. This was going to have to be done in a rush. Trust it to happen just when Aleksei had gone for his break, half an hour early, too.
By 2120 the message had been fed into the machine and was ready to go. All the officer had to do was set the automatic key, wait for the computer to send the transmission at the appointed time, and switch itself off. Yet he was troubled. There was scarcely any incoming traffic after six in the evening, and outgoing messages were rare enough to attract attention. That was one thing. But for a general to send a message under his own initials… well, that was extraordinary. The officer’s hand hovered over the key. Should he send it? Obey orders and forget it…?
His hand moved across from the console and picked up the telephone instead.
Someone answered, and the officer held the receiver away from his ear. Whoever was on the line had one hell of a cough.
‘General Michaelov here.’
The officer, a non-smoker, waited patiently while the speaker got over another furious bout of coughing. Everyone knew that Michaelov was smoking himself into an early grave with those damned ‘papirosy’ cigarettes of his. Filthy habit.
He took a deep breath. ‘Forgive me, comrade General, but I wished to verify this message.’
‘Yes, yes. What about it? Have you sent it yet?’
‘No, I…’
‘Well send it, idiot! What the hell do you mean by it, eh? Can’t you read?’
‘Yes, comrade General.’ The officer was starting to feel wretched.
‘Aren’t the instructions clear enough?’
‘Perfectly clear, comrade General.’
‘Well then, don’t make me come down there and sort you out. Damned insolence. Why if I…’
The call terminated amidst another bout of chesty coughing. The officer replaced the receiver and wiped the sweat from his forehead, wondering what he could salvage from the wreckage of his career. One thing was certain: he had better send that message before it was too late…
Outside in the corridor someone whistled. That must be Aleksei, returning from his break. Aleksei would know what to do. Every fucking night there was something: do this, do that, run here, go there, kiss my arse… Why couldn’t Michaelov stay at home and poke his old woman like the rest of the brass did?
‘What’s up?’ said Aleksei, catching the look on his colleague’s face.
‘Wait ’til you hear. It’s the damndest thing…’ The radio officer explained what had happened in his friend’s absence. ‘Do you think I should report it in the morning?’
‘I shouldn’t’, said Aleksei knowingly. ‘Forget it. Until you’re asked. And maybe not even then.’
That sounded like good advice; and if Povin could have heard it as he walked slowly back along the corridor to his own office, his fingers convulsively squeezing the tiny crucifix in his pocket until it was slippery with sweat, he would certainly have endorsed Aleksei’s opinion.