The Russia House

CHAPTER 11

The pattern of the next three days, like the wreck of a smashed acroplane, was afterwards minutely examined for technical faults, though few were found.

After his outburst at the airport Barley entered the bright stage, smiling a lot to himself on the carjourney, greeting familiar landmarks with his habitual shy affection. He also had a sneezing fit.

As soon as we reached the Knightsbridge house, where Ned was determined Barley should spend the night before returning to his flat, he dumped his luggage in the hall, flung his arms round Miss Coad and, declaring his undying love for her, presented her with a splendid lynx-fur hat which neither Wicklow nor anyone else could afterwards remember him buying.

At this point I removed myself. Clive had commanded me to the'twelfth floor for what he termed 'a crucial discussion , though it turned out that what he really wanted was to tap me. Was Scott Blair nervous? Was he above himself? How was he, Palfrey? Johnny was there, listening but scarcely speaking. Bob, he said, had been recalled to Langley for consultations. I told them what I had seen, no less, certainly no more. Both were puzzled by Barley's tears.

'You mean he said he was going back?' said Clive.

The same night Ned dined with Barley alone. This was not yet the debriefing. It was the coming down. The tapes reveal Barley in staccato mood and his voice a key higher than usual. By the time I joined them for coffee he was talking about Goethe but with artificial objectivity.

Gocthe had aged, had lost his bounce.

Goethe was really shot up.

Goethe seemed to have stopped drinking. He was getting his highs elsewhere. 'You should have seen his hands, Harry, shaking over that map.'

You should have seen yours, I thought, when you were drinking champagne at the airport.

He referred to Katya only once that evening, also in a deliberately unemotional way. I think he was determined we should know that he had no feelings that were not ours to control. That was not deviousness on Barley's part. With the exception of what we had taught him, he was incapable of it. It was his fear of where his feelings might end up if they were no longer anchored to us.

Katya was more scared for her kids than she was for herself, he said, again with studied detachment. He supposed most mothers were. On the other hand her children were the cyphers for the world she wished to save. So in a sense what she was doing was a kind of absolute version of mother love, don't you agree, Nedsky?

Ned agreed. Nothing harder than to experiment with one's own children, Barley, he said.

But a marvellous girl, Barley insisted, now in patronising mode. A bit too hell-bent for Barley's personal taste these days, but if you liked your women to have the moral fibre of Joan of Arc, then Katya was for you. And she was beautiful. No question. A bit too haywire to be classical, if we knew what he meant, but undeniably striking.

We couldn't tell him we had been admiring photographs of her for the last week, so we took his word for it.

At eleven, complaining of the time difference, Barley flopped. We stood in the hall watching him haul himself upstairs to bed.

'Anyway it was good stuff, was it?' he asked as he clung to the banister and grinned down at us through his little round spectacles. 'The new notebook he gave us. You've looked at it?'

'The boffins are burning the midnight oil over it at this mornent,' Ned replied. He could hardly say they were fighting over it like cats and dogs.

'Experts are addicts,' Barley said, with another grin.

But he remained on the half-landing swaying, while he seemed to search for an appropriate exit line.

'Somebody ought to do a bit of work on those body microphones, Nedsky. Bloody saddle-sores all over my back. The next bloke you send had better have a thicker hide. Where's Uncle Bob, by the by?'

'He sends love,' said Ned. 'Business is brisk at the moment. He hopes to catch up with you soon.'

'Is he out hunting with Walt?'

'If I knew I wouldn't tell you,' said Ned, and we all laughed.

That night, I remember, I received a particularly irrelevant phone call from Margaret, my wife, about a parking ticket she had picked up in Basingstoke – in her view, unfairly.

'It was my space, I had put my indicator out when this bloody little man in a brand-new Jaguar, a white one, with slicked black hair – '

Unwisely I laughed, and suggested to her that jaguars with slicked black hair had no special dispensation at parking meters. Humour was never Margaret's strong point.

The next morning, the Sunday, Clive again required my attendance, first to pump me about the previous night, then to hear me 'talk turkey' with Johnny on such esoteric matters as whether Barley could legally be styled an employee of our Service and, if so, whether by taking our shilling he had renounced certain rights - his right to legal representation in the event of a dispute with us, for instance. I was Delphic, which annoyed them, but basically I said the answer was 'yes'. Yes, he had renounced those rights. Or more exactly, yes, we could gull him into thinking he had, whether he had in law or not.

Johnny, if I have not mentioned it already, had graduated from Harvard Law School, so for once it was not necessary for Langley to send us a chorus of legal advisers.

In the afternoon, Barley being restless and the day sunny, we drove to Maidenhead and walked the towpath beside the Thames. By the time we returned, I suppose you could say Barley had been dcbricfcd: for what with no questions coming down to us from our analysts, and his operational encounters already covered by technical means, there was really very little left to debrief him about.

Was Barley affected by our worries? We were as jolly as we could be, but I couldn't help Wondering whether the atmosphere of menacing stagnation was getting through to him. Or perhaps his feelings were such a maelstrom of confusion and anticlimax that he merely lumped us in with them.

On the Sunday night we ate supper together in Knightsbridge and Barley was so mild-mannered and reposed that Ned decided – as I would have done – that it was safe to send him back to Hampstead.

His flat was in a Victorian block off East Heath Road and the static surveillance post was situated directly below it, manned by a bright young Service couple. The rightful tenants had been temporarily resettled elsewhere. Around eleven, the couple reported that Barley was in his flat alone but prowling. They could hear but not see him. Ned had drawn the line at video. He was doing a lot of talking to himself, they said, and when he opened his mail, curses and groans came over the monitors.

Ned was unbothered. He had read Barley's mail already and knew it contained no horrors beyond the usual.

Around one a.m., Barley rang his daughter Anthea in Grantham.

'What's an ig?'

'An Eskimo house without a loo. How was Moscow?'

'What do you get if you cross the Atlantic with the Titanic?'

'About halfway. How was Moscow?'

'What do you get if you cross a sheep with a kangaroo?'

'I asked you how Moscow was.'

'A woolly jumper. How's your boring husband?'

'Asleep, trying to be. What became of the cream bun you took to Lisbon?'

'Rained off.'

'I thought she was permanent.'

'She is. I'm not.'

Barley next telephoned two women, the first a former wife over whom he had retained visiting rights, the second not previously listed. Neither could oblige him at such short notice, not least because they were in bed with their men.

At one-forty the couple reported that Barley's bedroom lights were out. Ned gratefully went to sleep, but I was already in my little flat and sleep was the last thing in my mind. Memories of Hannah were teeming through my head, mixed with images of Barley in the Knightsbridge house. I remembered his falsely casual way of talking about Katya and her children and I kept comparing it with my own repeated denials of my love for Hannah, back in the days when it endangered me. Hannah looks a bit down in the mouth, some innocent would remark every five minutes of my day. Is that husband of hers leading her a dance or what? And I'd smile. I gather he likes to knock her around a bit, I'd say, with exactly that same superior tone of detachment that I had heard in Barley, while the cancerous secret fires inside me ate away my heart.

Next morning Barley went to his office to resume work, but it was agreed that he would drop by the Knightsbridge house on his way home from work in case there were points to clear up. This was not quite the loose arrangement that it sounds, for Ned by now was locked in a serious shoot-out with the twelfth floor, and it was likely that by evening he would either have to give ground or face a full-scale battle with the mandarins.

But by then Barley had disappeared.

According to Brock's watchers Barley left his office in Norfolk Street a little earlier than expected, at four-fortythree, carrying his saxophone in its case. Wicklow, who was in Abercrombie & Blair's back office typing up an account of the Moscow trip, was unaware of his departure. But a pair of Brock's boys in jeans followed Barley west down the Strand and, when he changed his mind, crossed with him into Soho where he went to earth in an afternoon watering-hole frequented by publishers and agents. He spent twenty minutes there, emerged still carrying his saxophone and looking perfectly steady. He hailed a cab, and one of the boys was close enough to hear him give the address of the safe house. The same boy bleeped Brock, who called Ned in Knightsbridge to say 'Stand by, your guest is on his way.' I was elsewhere, fighting other wars.

Thus far nobody was to blame, except that neither of the boys thought to take the cab's number, an oversight that later cost them dear. It was rush hour. A trip between the Strand and Knightsbridge could take an age. It was not till seven-thirty that Ned gave up waiting and, worried but not yet alarmed, returned to the Russia House.

At nine when nobody had any sensible suggestions Ned reluctantly declared an in-house alert, which by definition excluded the Americans. As usual, Ned was operational cool. Perhaps subconsciously he had steeled himself for such a crisis, for Brock later commented that he slipped into a prepared routine. He did not inform Clive, but as he explained to me later, telling Clive in the present poisoned atmosphere was as good as sending a singing telegram to Langley.

Ned drove himself first to Bloomsbury where the Service listeners owned a run of cellars under Russell Square. He used a car from the pool and must have driven like the wind. The head duty listener was Mary, a compulsive cater of forty, rose-faced and spinsterish. Her only known loves were unattainable voices. Ned handed her a list of Barley's contacts, compiled by the departed Walter from intercepts and watch reports. Could Mary cover them immediately? Like now?

Mary damn well could not. 'Stretching regulations is one thing. Ned. A dozen illegal taps is completely another, can't you even see?'

Ned might have argued that the extra numbers were covered by the existing Home Office warrant but he didn't bother. He phoned me in Pimlico just as I was uncorking the bottle of burgundy with which I proposed to console myself after a dirty day. It's a rather awful little flat and I had the window open to get out the smcll of frying. I remember closing the window while we talked.

Phone warrants are in theory signed by the Home Secretary or in his absence by his Minister. But there is a trick to this, for he has provided the Legal Adviser with a delegated authority to be used only in emergency and accounted for in writing within twenty-four hours. I scribbled out my authority, signed it, turned off the gas -I was still boiling the Brussels sprouts - clambered into a cab and twenty minutes later handed the authority to Mary. Within the hour the telephones of Barley's twelve contacts were covered.

What was I thinking as I did all this? Did I think Barley had done away with himself? No, I did not. His concerns were for the living. The last thing he wished to do was leave them to their fate.

But I considered the possibility that he had broken ranks, and I suppose my worst fantasy was of Barley loudly clapping as the Aeroflot pilot announced that his plane had re-entcred Soviet airspace.

In the meantime, on Ned's orders, Brock had persuaded the police to put out an emergency call for any metropolitan cab-driver who had picked up a tall man with a saxophone on the corner of Old Compton Street at five-thirty, destination Knightsbridge but probably changed en route. Yes, a tenor saxophone - a baritone sax was twice the size. By ten they had their Man. The cab had started out for Knightsbridge but at Trafalgar Square Barley had indeed changed his mind and asked to be driven to Harley Street. The fare came to three pounds. Barley gave the driver a fiver and told him to keep the change.

By a small miracle of quick thinking, assisted by the late Walter's records, Ned made the connection - Andrew George Macready, alias Andy, former jazz trumpeter and listed Barley contact, had been admitted to the Sisters of Mercy Hospice, Harley Street, three weeks ago, see scrawled letter intercept in pencil, Mrs. Macready to Hampstead, serial 47A, and Walter's lapidary comment on the minute sheet: Macready is Barley's guru on mortality.

I still remember how I clung to the grab handle of Ned's car with both hands. We arrived at the hospice to be told Macready was under sedation. Barley had sat with him for an hour and they had managed to exchange a few words. The night matron, who had just come on duty, had taken Barley a cup of tea, no milk or sugar. Barley had topped it up with whisky from a flask. He had offered the matron a dram but she declined. He asked her whether he might 'play old Andy a couple of his favourite numbers'. He played softly for ten minutes exactly, which was what she had allowed him. Several of the nuns had gathered in the corridor to listen, and one of them recognised the tune as Basie's 'Blue and Sentimental'. He left his phone number and a cheque for a hundred pounds 'for the croupier' on a brass collection plate at the door. The matron had told him he could come back whenever he wanted.

'You're not police, are you?' she asked me unhappily as we made for the door.

'Good Lord, no. Whyever should we be?'

She shook her head and would not answer, but I thought I knew what she had seen in. him. A man in flight, hiding from his own actions.

Using the car telephone as we sped back to the Russia House Ned ordered Brock to list all clubs, concert halls and pubs in the London area wherejazz was being played tonight. He should, distribute as many watchers as he could muster over these events.

For good measure I added the lawyer's ten cents' worth. In no circumstances was Brock or any watcher physically to restrain Barley or close with him. Whatever other rights Barley might have waived, he had not waived his right to defend himself and he was a powerful man.

We were settling for a long wait when Mary the head listener rang, this time all sweetness and oil. 'Ned, I think you ought to get round here a tiny bit fastish. Some of your eggs have hatched.'

We tear back to Russell Square, Ned leaning the car against the curves at sixty rr~iles an hour.

In her cellar ]air Mary received us with the doting smile she reserved for moments of disaster. A favourite girl called Pepsi stood beside her, dressed in green overalls. A tape .recorder turned on the desk.

'Who the hell's that at this hour?' a stentorian voice demanded and I recognised immediately Barley's formidable Aunt Pandora, the Sacred Cow whom I had entertained to lunch. Hiatus while coins were fed into the machine. Followed by Barley's courteous voice.

'I'm rather afraid I've had it, Pan. I'm kissing the firm goodbye.'

'Don't talk cock,' Aunt Pandora retorted. 'Some fool girl's been getting at you again.'

'I'm serious, Pan. This time it's for real. I had to tell you.'

'You're always serious. That's why you're such a fraud pretending to be frivolous.'

'I'm going to talk to Guy in th e morning.' Guy Solomons, family solicitor, listed Barley contact. 'Wicklow, the new man, can take it over. He's a tough little runt and he's a fast learner.'

'Did you trace the phone box?' Ned asked Mary as Barley rang off.

'No time,' said Mary proudly.

From the tape we heard the renewed ring of a phone. Barley again. 'Reggie? I'm having a blow tonight. Come and play.'

Mary handed us a piece of card on which she had written, Canon Reginald Cowan, drummer and clerk in holy orders.

'Can't,' said Reggie. 'Bloody Confirmation class.'

'Ditch thern,' said Barley.

'Can't. Buggers are here with me now.'

'We need you, Reggie. Old Andy's dying.'

'So arc we all. All the bloody time.'

As the tape was ending, Brock came through on a live call from the Russia House asking for Ned urgently. His watchers had reported that Barley had looked in on his Soho drinking club an hour ago, drunk five whiskies then moved on to the Noah's Arch at King's Cross.

'Noah's Arch? You mean Ark.'

'Arch. It's an arch under the railway line. Noah's an eight-foot West Indian. Barley's joined the band.'

'Alone?'

'So far.'

'What sort of place?'

'Diner and boozer. Sixty tables, stage, brick walls, whores, the usual.'

Brack thought all pretty girls were whores.

'How full?' said Ned.

'Two-thirds and rising.'

'What's he playing?'

'"Lover Man", Duke Ellington.'

'How many exits?'

'One.'

'Put together one team of three men and park them at a table near the door. If he leaves, straddle him but don't touch him. Call Resources and tell them I want Ben Lugg to get his cab over to the Noah's Arch immediately and wait with his flag down. He'll know what to do.' Lugg was the Service's tame cabby. 'Are there any public phones in the club?'

'Two.'

'Have them occupied till I get there. Has he seen you?'

'No.'

'Don't let him. What's across the road?'

'A launderette.'

'Is it open?'

'No.'

'Wait for me in front of it.' He swung round on Mary, who was still smiling. 'There are two phones at the Noah's Arch, King's Cross,' he said, speaking very slowly. 'Have them faulted now. If the management's got its own line, have that faulted too. Now. I don't care how short-staffed the engineers are, fault them now. If there are phone boxes in the street outside, fault the lot. Now.'

We abandoned the Service car and hailed a cab. Brock was waiting as ordered in the doorway of the launderette. Ben Lugg was parked at the curbside. Tickets were five ninety-five at the door. Ned led me past the watchers' table without a glance and shoved his way to the front.

Nobody was dancing. The band's front line was taking a break. Barley was standing ccntre stage in front of a gold chair, playing with the gentle backing of the double bass and drums. A brick arch made a sound chamber over him. He was still wearing his publishing suit and seemed to have forgotten to remove his jacket. Rotating coloured lights wandered over him, occasionally closing on his face which was running sweat. His expression was nerveless and remote. He was holding the long notes and I knew they were a requiem for Andy and for whoever else was occupying his beleaguered mind. A couple of girls had sat themselves in the band seats and were staring at him with unblinking eyes. A line of beers was also awaiting his attention. Beside him stood the immense Noah with his arms folded across his chest, listening with his head down. The piece ended. Deliberately and tenderly, as if he were dressing a friend's wound, Barley cleaned out his sax and laid it to rest in its case. Noah did not allow applause but there was a scuffling noise while everyone snapped their fingers and there were calls of 'encore' but Barley didn't bother with them. He drained a couple of the beers, gave a wave round and picked his way delicately through the crowd to the door. We went after him and as we stepped into the street Ben Lugg drew alongside with his flag up.

'Mo's,' Barley ordered as he flopped into the back seat. He had another flask of Scotch from somewhere and was unscrewing the cap. 'Hullo, Harry. How's love at a distance?'

'Great, thanks. I recommend it.'

'Where on earth's Mo's?' Ned asked as he settled beside him and I parked myself on the jump seat.

'Tufnell Park. Underneath the Falmouth Arms.'

'Good sound?' Ned asked.

'The best.'

But it was not Barley's false cheerfulness that alarmed me. It was the remoteness of him, the deadness of his eyes, the way he kept himself confined inside the fastness of his English courtesy.

Mo was a blonde in her fifties and she spent a long time kissing Barley before she would let us sit at her table. Barley played blues and Mo wanted him to stay, I think for the night, but Barley could stay nowhere long, so we went to a music pizza house in Islington where he played inother solo and Ben Lugg came in with us to have a cup of tea and a listen. Ben was a boxer in his day and still talked about the fight game. From Islington we crossed the river to the Elephant to hear a black group playing soul in a bus garage. It was four-fifteen but Barley was showing no sign of sleep; he preferred to sit with the group drinking spiked cocoa out of pint-sized china mugs. When we at last gentled him towards Ben's cab, the two girls from Noah's reappeared from nowhere and sat themselves either side of him in the back seat.

'Now then, you girls,' said Ben while Ned and I waited on the pavement. 'Hop it.'

'Stay where you are, I should,' Barley advised them.

'It's not your cab, dears. It's this bloke's' – indicating Ned – 'now piss off, like good girls.'

Barley swung his fist at Ben's head, which was adorned with a black Homburg hat. Ben blocked the blow like a man waving away a cobweb, and in the same movement drew Barley carefully out of the cab and handed him over to Ned, who took him equally carefuliy in an armlock.

Still in his Homburg, Ben disappeared into the back of the cab and came out with a girl in each hand.

'Why don't we all get a bit of fresh air?' Ned suggested while Ben gave the girls a tenner each to get lost.

'Good idea,' said Barley.

So we crossed the river in slow procession, with Brock's watchers bringing up the rear and Ben Lugg's cab crawling along behind us. A dirty brown dawn was rising over dockland.

'Sorry about that,' said Barley after a while. 'No harm done, is there, Nedsky?'

'None that I know of,' said Ned.

'Be alert,' Barley advised. 'Your Country Needs Lerts. Right, Nedsky?Just felt like making a spot of music,' he explained to me. 'You a musical man, Harry? Chum of mine used to play to his girl over the phone. Only piano, mind, not sax, but he said it did the trick. You could try it out on your missus.'

'We're leaving for America tomorrow,' said Ned.

Barley took thepews conversationally. 'Nice for you. Nice time of year. Country looking at its best, I'd say.'

'It's nice for you too, actually,' said Ned. 'We thought we'd take you along.'

'Casual, is it?' Barley asked. 'Or better pack a dinner jacket to be on the safe side?'