It had been a false spring, after all. April came but in Moscow the nights were freezing once more, and brown slush coated the streets by day. The office on the third floor, however, was warm and fuggy. The Chairman had given orders for the central heating to be switched on again – and to hell with the Politburo, he thought privately to himself as he signed the chit. Let them save roubles some other year, after I’ve gone.
He had spent the past hour proofreading a report, now ready for his signature. Its subject was the identity of ‘Source Lisa’, and the steps which Stanov had taken to uncover the traitor.
When he had finished reading the report he removed his spectacles and went to stand by the window in his favourite spot overlooking the square. He was smiling. Nowadays it was fashionable to decry the role of intuition in espionage. Take Kazin, for example; he would never have understood the subtle mental processes which had led Stanov to the traitor.
So many straws in the wind, so many hints over the years. A non-drinker. Daughter on the verge of becoming a dissident. No sense of humour, no gift of relaxation, no flair. Perfect material for the West. A Georgian. Stanov frowned. How the hell had they ever appointed a Georgian to be head of the First Main Directorate?
And the evidence! He was almost sure at the beginning when he briefed Bucharensky, but look at what had happened since then. Who sent an executioner to the UK? Michaelov. Who left traces all over Radio Operations, with those filthy papirosy cigarettes? Michaelov. Stanov shook his head sorrowfully. To betray the Inspectorate, the Kommandant itself: a bitter blow. But they had caught him, at least there was that consolation.
Intuition. That’s what you needed. That’s why he was going to remain head of the KGB for ten more years at least, while Kazin was going to the Ministry of Agriculture, there to rot with his own collective farm manure. Stanov shook his head again. Kazin would never have appreciated the value of men like Loshkevoi. Or Royston.
Royston stood particularly high in Stanov’s good books that day. With advancing age the Chairman was growing tired of elderly Cambridge dons with their peculiar sexual habits. He found them faintly obscene. A meritocrat like Royston came as a refreshing change.
Yevchenko knocked and came in. Stanov turned away from the window.
‘Strange,’ he said. ‘Strange to think that Loshkevoi actually knew the name. I suspected many things of him, but never that.’
‘A pity he did not live to confirm the identification, then.’
Stanov shrugged. ‘What more could he have said? And this way it saves us the cost of a bullet. They are ready downstairs?’
Yevchenko nodded. In his hand he held a bunch of heavy keys. While Stanov watched with satisfaction he walked across to ‘The Door’ and unfastened the twin padlocks. It swung open to reveal a short, gloomy corridor, and a single light-bulb suspended from the ceiling by bare flex. Stanov rubbed his hands together.
‘Come, Nikolai. It’s been a while since I looked at the Lubianka cellars, and I’m sure the general doesn’t want to be kept waiting. By the way, you remember what we were talking about yesterday? I’ve decided on Michaelov’s successor and now we’ve finally got double-oh-seven-eight through, those bastards over the way can’t stop me, eh? Normally I don’t believe in promoting deputies at that level, but I’m going to make an exception. Povin it is. Excellent officer. Loyal. I like that, Nikolai. Remind me to tell Michaelov before they start…’
‘A popular appointment, old man. I approve.’
Stanov paused on the threshold, struck by a sudden thought. He rested a hand on Yevchenko’s shoulder and when he spoke there was genuine doubt in his voice.
‘Nikolai… should I have told Kyril more, like you said? Would it have been better for him to die knowing all along that he was expendable, nothing more than a target? D’you still think I was wrong?’
Yevchenko smiled ruefully.
‘If you’d told him the truth he would never have got to Loshkevoi. You were right not to trust him completely. I admit it. As it is, he was a good officer to the end. He died in the knowledge that he had not failed, that the name would get through.’
Stanov smiled, and removed his hand from Yevchenko’s shoulder. They went through ‘The Door’ together. As Stanov turned to close it behind him he caught sight of ‘The Chair’ and it occurred to him that in say another ten years there would be a vacancy in the office of Chairman. Just time enough for Povin to show what he could really do. And then, perhaps… Who knows?
The Door closed behind him. In Dzerzhinsky Square the street lamps fizzled into life, illuminating the first snow of the night as it fell, untouched, through their incandescent blue circles. The room was silent and empty. As the natural light drained away, so one by one the features of the office dissolved into the surrounding darkness and became part of it. Andropov’s vacant face was the first to disappear; then the quartz clocks, the telephones, the gigantic desk and, last to go, as if reluctant to surrender to the night, the ornate wooden chair…
The Chair… which, in the eyes of Soviet law, is never empty.