VASILY BLINKED SWEAT AND TEARS OF PAIN, HEARD THE distant honking of the taxis, the shouts of hawkers, an argument breaking out beyond sight between two men. The rat was back again, joined by a friend. They watched Vasily in enraptured fascination.
‘Shoo,’ he tried to tell them. ‘Shoo.’
But the words didn’t come. Every breath hurt. He’d broken ribs. There was a knife in his side, he thought. It stemmed the bleeding somewhat. How long before one bled to death? He should know this. He had studied this at the Advanced School. He never even got to kill anyone, not in the line of duty anyway. They had people to do this kind of wet work. Career spies didn’t murder people. Career spies did paperwork and tried to make friends and occasionally blackmailed them.
What was he doing three years ago?
Cairo. The embassy. Yuri Gagarin.
Right.
Everything was new and exciting when he first landed in Cairo back in ’61. He couldn’t get used to the heat, the traffic on the roads, the colours. Moscow had been grey and utilitarian. There was order in Moscow. Here cars zigged and zagged around donkey-pulled carts, children running across the road, people crossing every which way, and he was astounded by the sight of the women in their fashionable Western clothes, and the men in suits and ties or in Arabic dress, the lights of this big, cosmopolitan city, its bars and casinos, the smell of the sheesha pipes, the cries of the mosques to prayer. His grandmother’s Baedeker had nothing on the real Cairo, or so it seemed to Vasily just then. He quickly realised the Arabic he learned was not Egyptian Arabic, and set to learn the dialect, all the while, of course, carefully maintaining the pretence that he spoke none of it.
‘Be dumb,’ Edgar had counselled him, back in Moscow. ‘Learn to be overlooked, and let them underestimate you – to their detriment.’
Vasily had presented himself to the ambassador. Vladimir Yakovlevich Yerofeyev was a professional diplomat, who’d served with distinction in Turkey, Britain and France. He had looked at Vasily with cursory interest, shook his hand and welcomed him to the Soviet mission. The embassy itself sat in Dokki, across the Nile from downtown. When Vasily arrived the whole place was a construction site. They were building a new, grand embassy as befitted the Soviet Union and its increased presence in this new, United Arab Republic. It was not even a decade since Nasser led the revolution that brought down King Farouk and ushered in a new age to the ancient kingdom. Nasser embraced socialism, and he looked to the Soviets to help him with his military ambitions in the region. He’d even nationalised the Suez Canal, dealing a major blow to the British who were Egypt’s one-time paymasters.
‘We must cultivate Egypt,’ the ambassador told Vasily and the assembled men of the rezidentura. ‘With our help she could become a shining beacon of socialism in the Middle East. Do not attempt heavy-handed approaches to Egyptian high-ups. Do not engage with the local communist party. We have a hold here now, and I do not need you mucking it up. Tread softly, gentlemen.’
Later, the men of the rezidentura sat in the rezident’s office over vodka and cigarettes.
‘The truth of it,’ Tovarich Kirpichenko, Vasily’s new boss, said, ‘is that we hardly need to, what did the ambassador call it, use “heavy-handed” tactics with these Egyptians? Our men infiltrate every level of the army and government here. We train them, we provide them with weapons, and the colonels and generals willingly share most things for a bottle of good whiskey. No, Vasily. What I need you to do is turn your focus to the other Western forces who meddle in Egyptian affairs. This place is riddled with diplomats and spies. Bring me someone I can use, not now but further down the line. Use your good looks if a woman presents herself, use persuasion if you meet a fellow traveller, or blackmail if the opportunity presents itself. You will be based out of the Balmoral Hotel downtown. Many foreigners stay there. Make friends. Make yourself popular. You can ride?’
Vasily said that, yes, he could ride. He had learned back when they were still living in the countryside, before Leningrad, before his father went away to war.
‘Good. Life here revolves around horse riding. Perhaps you could go to the races. They are very popular. I do not care much for horses, myself. And I am too ugly to seduce a duchess.’ He laughed, and the others joined in.
‘I have a wife in Moscow,’ Vasily said. The others turned and looked at him. One smirked.
‘Moscow is Moscow,’ Kirpichenko said. ‘This is Cairo. And you must do what you must for your country.’
The others all laughed. Vasily resented them. He was glad he would not be based out of the embassy. His cover was as a trade delegate. He even had an expense account. He intended to use it.
The Balmoral, when he arrived there, was a hub of unimaginable luxury. His head spun. The porter carried his suitcases to his room. It was early evening, the heat of the day dissipating into a pleasant warmth, and a faint breeze over the Nile cooled Vasily’s face. There was an electric fan in his room, an enormous bath, soft carpets. From his balcony he could hear the noises of the city and the clinking of glasses and the laughter and chatter of guests as they assembled for what he soon learned was the traditional twilight gin and tonic.
This custom, much favoured by the British, could easily go on for three hours, following which they were all loose-tongued and merry, and ready for their meals. Nothing happened early in Cairo. The days were too hot and the nights were when things came alive. Vasily shaved, washed, and dressed in his finest suit. He examined himself in the mirror.
He cut a dashing figure, he thought to himself. He was thinking of growing a moustache. His eyes, he thought, were his best features. Pale blue with a hint of grey, the colour of Lake Baikal. Sveta often told him she fell in love with his eyes. His hair might be thinning slightly. He had to admit that. Not enough to worry him, not yet. He should seek out a good barber, get a more fashionable haircut, more Western, he thought. Though he was still a Soviet official, a junior member of the trade delegation, nothing more. But still. He could give out the impression of a man on the make, a man given, after all, to trade and international business more than he was to revolutionary ideals. Just a person, to put it another way.
He put a comb through his hair, splashed Aqua Velva on his cheeks, nodded to his reflection and jauntily left the room. That night he dined in the hotel restaurant, sitting by himself, quietly watching the other diners and trying to make out their connections and interactions.
‘Learn first,’ Edgar had told him. ‘The tools of the spy are people. Know them before you attempt to use them.’ Edgar had the air of a man who knew what it was like to be used. For now Vasily sat there, enjoying his steak and his glass of wine, rare luxuries that would be rare no more, not as long as his assignment here lasted. It made him feel strange. In Russia, only the Nomenklatura – the elite – had access to luxuries. Yet here he was, simple Vasily, with more than even members of the Politburo could have. Or so it seemed to him.
‘Hello,’ a voice said. A man stood over him, smiling pleasantly, indicating the unoccupied chair across the table. ‘Mind if I join you? Daniel Pikorski, I work for Feebes Bank. Transportation and logistics insurance. How do you do? You must be the new Soviet spy.’
He laughed, clearly making a joke. He had an American accent. Vasily forced a smile of his own.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Do sit down. I am Vasily Sokolov.’ He used his cover name. ‘Soviet Trade Delegation,’ he added.
‘I thought you guys always travelled in groups,’ Pikorski said, sitting down. He indicated to the waiter, who hurried over with a new bottle of wine. ‘It’s rare to see a Russian alone.’
Vasily shrugged. ‘I don’t know why that should be so,’ he said.
‘I merely mean… No, never mind,’ Pikorski said. ‘I like to meet the new arrivals, Vasily – can I call you that? Vasily? Call me Daniel. I have been here two years now, living out of the Balmoral, do you know. I can’t bear the thought of having my own place. The amount of staff you need to maintain those stone piles! I prefer coming and going as I please. I assume you do too.’
He smiled. Vasily smiled too. He wondered what the man’s game was. Was he looking to turn Vasily? Was he CIA? Alternatively, was he looking to defect, and measuring out who he thought was a Soviet agent? Either way the man was a fool, to make an approach this early on and in public. Unless he was just what he appeared to be, a bored banker looking for a new drinking partner.
This was the problem, Vasily reflected. You just couldn’t tell. Everything could be false or everything could be real. Or something in between. Edgar had said much the same to him in Moscow.
‘Your suit, is it Russian?’ Daniel Pikorski said. ‘It looks uncomfortably hot. I recommend linen. Remind me, and I will give you the name of my tailor. The man can work wonders with material.’
‘I’ll be sure to do that,’ Vasily said. He indicated to the waiter. The man came and cleared his plate away. Vasily stretched and took a sip of the wine. It was good wine. Pikorski took out a silver cigarette case and proffered it to Vasily.
‘Thank you,’ Vasily said. He took a cigarette. Pikorski fished in his pocket, came out with a gold lighter. He lit them both up.
‘A bank, you say?’ Vasily said.
‘Feebes Bank,’ Pikorski said. He blew out smoke. ‘It’s one of those old, family-owned British firms. Had an office here for many years due to the Suez Canal, of course. I came on board in the Hong Kong office. I went to Harvard business school, you see. Did three years at Chase Manhattan, then got headhunted to Feebes. I talk a bit British now, don’t let that fool you.’ He winked. ‘Cairo’s fun,’ he said. ‘You’ll like it here, Vas.’
Now Vasily was more than a little confused, not sure if he was being propositioned or set up. And being called Vas? This was a new ignominy. There was just something about Pikorski that didn’t add up. He’ll look him up tomorrow, he thought. Though of course Pikorski’s story will check out.
‘What do you do here?’ he said.
‘I can show you around, old man!’ Pikorski said. ‘Listen, I was just with some friends at the bar when I saw you sitting here. Why don’t we take this wine with us and you can join us? I’ll introduce you to everyone. How about it?’
Vasily thought quickly.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Why not.’ Pikorski smiled, like a hunter who’d just collected a trophy. Vasily followed him to the bar, the waiter following with the wine in its bucket. They went to a table by the window. Three others already sat there, two women and a man.
‘We’re quite an international gathering,’ Pikorski said. ‘This is Dirk Müller of International Rakete, he’s working on Nasser’s new missiles.’
‘Hello,’ the young German said. He shook Vasily’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘This is Stéphanie Bernier, of the Compagnie financière de Suez—’
The woman wore her hair short and had a brisk, no-nonsense manner.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘And this is my good friend and employer, the Honourable Henrietta Feebes.’
Vasily stared. The girl was roughly his age, with an easy, assured poise that must come, he thought, from a life of luxury. Her eyes were hidden behind expensive, dark sunglasses. When she smiled it was like the sun slowly rising over the pyramids (an image he was yet to see, but which he had since come to associate with her).
‘Please,’ she said, ‘call me Henrietta. These titles are so… feudal, don’t you think?’ She turned that smile on him. He found himself standing there at a loss.
‘And you are…?’ she said.
‘Vasily Sokolov. Soviet trade d—’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We were told you were coming. Replacing old Volkov, aren’t you?’
‘You’re well informed,’ he said.
‘Trade is the life blood of capitalism, Vasily,’ she said. The others laughed politely. Vasily shrugged.
‘The Soviet Union must act within a world at odds with our ideals,’ he said. ‘But we are not at war, and we have much to offer.’
‘Nasser certainly seems to think so,’ Stéphanie said.
‘Your firm,’ Vasily said. ‘Was it not the Suez Company, before Nasser nationalised it?’
‘You are well-informed,’ Stéphanie said.
‘And you are now a banking and investment firm?’ Vasily said.
‘We are indeed,’ Stéphanie said. ‘Make no mistake, Mr Sokolov. Our business here is business. None of us are here to see the pyramids.’
‘Though they are quite a sight,’ Pikorski said.
‘Neither am I, Miss Bernier,’ Vasily said. ‘I too am here for, as you say, business.’
‘Then we shall all get along famously!’ Pikorski said. ‘See, I told you he’d fit right in. Where shall we go tonight? The El Cohara casino? The Havana?’
‘How about a nightclub?’ Stéphanie said.
‘The Arizona? Skyrockets?’
They fell to discussing plans. Vasily watched them, felt a kind of excitement he had last felt in Paris. Here were young people, much like himself, free to go and do as they pleased. He tried to push the thought away. But the more he did the more did Moscow loom in his mind, grey and depressing, somehow.
‘Well, Mr Sokolov?’ Henrietta Feebes said. ‘As you are the guest, we must leave the decision to you.’
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Call me Vasily. These titles are so… feudal, don’t you think?’
She laughed. He found that he liked making Henrietta Feebes laugh.
‘Very well, Vasily,’ she said. ‘Where would you like to go?’
Vasily smiled.
‘I’d like,’ he said, ‘very much to see the pyramids.’
*
That was a good night, he thought as he lay bleeding. Though the bleeding had almost stopped, he realised. He tried to move. Pain shot through him. No. He would not try that again. He felt groggy and his mind wandered, unanchored in time. A good night, yes. They had taken a taxi to the place where Cairo abruptly ended. They were all a little drunk at that point. Pikorski negotiated with some Bedouins, and before Vasily knew it he was sitting on top of a camel, swaying dangerously under the moon and the stars, riding across the desert. The pyramids rose under the night sky, ancient and majestic. They took his breath away. They dwarfed Stalin’s Seven Sisters, or so it seemed to him then. They were nothing like the Hotel Ukraina or the Ministry of Foreign Affairs or the Kotelnicheskaya Embankment Building.
They had stood here in the sands for thousands of years. Before capitalism, before communism, when men made themselves gods and slaves died for their glory.
He saw the Great Pyramid of Giza and his mind swirled.
Then Henrietta Feebes said, ‘Let’s climb it.’
Vasily followed her as though bewitched. He stared up at the huge stone structure. The steps were more or less even. Henrietta didn’t wait for him. She hauled herself over the first step, reached for the next. In moments she was above him, moving like a spider on a wall.
‘You’re mad!’ he said, laughing.
‘Come on!’ Pikorski said. He followed Henrietta.
Stéphanie touched his arm. ‘We’ve done it before,’ she said. ‘It’s fun.’
She began to climb. Vasily tried it himself. It was easy going at first. He caught up to Stéphanie, then overtook her.
‘Hey!’ she said.
Henrietta was above him, moving fast. Vasily overtook Pikorski, who was taking a rest, breathing heavily, hanging there between heaven and earth. When Vasily looked down, the ground was very far away. He could see Cairo spread out beyond the desert, a great big beast alive, glowing with all the lights in the world. It might have been a second-rate assignment, he thought. It wasn’t Washington or London or Berlin. But he would make it his own. He would show those bastards back in Moscow what he could do!
‘Almost there!’ Henrietta shouted, high above him. Vasily strained, moving as fast as he dared, the ancient stones holding as they had for untold centuries. Still he couldn’t catch up with her, and then, with a cry of triumph, she reached the top ahead of him. He climbed the last few steps and collapsed on the narrow summit.
‘It’s worth it,’ Henrietta said, ‘for the view.’ He heard her laugh, then the click of a lighter. She drew deeply on a cigarette.
‘An ugly dawn,’ she said, ‘but a beautiful day.’
Vasily sat up. He could see all of Cairo from here, maybe the world. Henrietta offered him her case. Vasily took a cigarette and let Henrietta light it. Her hand touched his briefly, then withdrew. They smoked in silence, sitting on top of creation.