The Russian Interpreter

32

It was beginning to rain. Fat, wet drops smacked down on to the pavement and roadway. Konstantin looked up to investigate, and one struck the right-hand lens of his spectacles, obliterating it entirely and making him jump.

‘There’s a Metro station at the end of this road,’ he said. ‘We might get a carriage to ourselves at this time of night. Sit back – put our feet up. Good as a suite at the Sovietskaya.’

They trotted to the station, dark splodges of wetness speckling their clothes like a rash.

‘Ah,’ said Konstantin, as they got into a carriage with only two old women at the other end of it. ‘This is underground travel as it ought to be. Take a seat. Make yourself at home. Waiter! A bottle of champagne!’

He whipped off his glasses and polished them on the lining of his cap, his nose twitching at the absence of the accustomed weight.

‘It’s a good way to transmit information,’ he said. ‘Much better than furtively depositing it in dead letter-boxes, or hiding it in false-bottomed cigarette-lighters, or slipping it into the pocket of someone’s overcoat at a party. Do something secretive and someone may spy on you. Do it in public, in front of cameras, accompanied by toasts and speeches, and no one can spy on you, because everybody’s watching anyway. Open deception, openly arrived at – the secret of conjurors, businessmen, and tyrants alike.’

‘And you deduced all this from the expression on their faces?’

Konstantin shrugged.

‘A pure blind guess, really,’ he said. ‘A working hypothesis, as we natural scientists call it.’

‘But you thought it was worth testing?’

‘Modesty. If the system had occurred to me I was sure it must have occurred to Western intelligence agencies, too.’

‘So you got Ray a to steal the presents?’

‘Correct. Stole the Soviet ones first – naturally assumed the information was going out. First the silver-gilt university. Then a Spassky Tower in alabaster, a plastic sputnik, a china eagle with outspread wings, a painted wooden cigarette box, and a number of other articles repugnant to Western taste. Not a spark of reaction from Proctor-Gould. Glad to see them go, from all I could tell.’

‘He was being broad-minded about Raya.’

‘Then I thought, perhaps he’s bringing something in – instructions to agents, I don’t know. So we stole the Nescafé. No reaction. Stole the books – and there we were.’

They were riding on the Circle line. One by one the almost deserted stations drew level with the train, ground to a halt, and vanished again. Kievskaya, Krasnopresnenskaya, Bielorusskaya, Novoslobodskaya. Manning watched them dreamily, wondering in what tone of voice the names announced themselves, whether boastfully, apologetically, or benevolently.

‘I’m sorry, Konstantin,’ he said awkwardly at last. ‘I don’t entirely believe you.’

‘In what sense, don’t believe?’ said Konstantin slowly, blinking at Manning.

‘For a start, I don’t believe your story about guessing. That was pure invention, wasn’t it? And your deduction about Western intelligence. That seems reasonable as far as it goes. But there’s another deduction which one can’t help making at the same time – that Soviet counter-intelligence would have thought of the system, too.’

‘So what conclusion do you arrive at, Paul?’

‘I’m not sure, Konstantin.’

‘Call me Kostik, Paul. It’s more normal.’

‘The conclusion that suggests itself, Kostik, is that you’re working for Soviet security in some way. Perhaps in a freelance capacity. I suppose you’re trying to bluff Proctor-Gould into letting himself be blackmailed, so that somebody can use the fact of his having allowed himself to be blackmailed in order to blackmail him further.’

Konstantin didn’t answer. He sat in silence from one station to the next, looking out of the window and biting his thumb-nail. Then he sighed.

‘There’s a lot of truth in what you say,’ he said, and began to bite his thumb-nail again.

‘Listen,’ he said at last. ‘What does a kopeck look like? It depends which side you look at it from. Raya and I, now – from your point of view we look like thieves and hooligans. But from the usual side, the Soviet side, we’re respectable citizens. Raya teaches Diamat at a leading institute of higher education. I’m an aeronautical metallurgist. Raya’s father is very grand – a candidate member of the Presidium. We’re both Komsomol leaders. Activists. Responsible young people. We’re trusted to maintain moral standards. If you want to know what sort of people we are, take the case of your friend Lippe.’

‘Katerina?’

‘Katerina Fyodorovna Lippe. Lippe K.F. A head stuffed with nonsense, as we activists would say. She was expelled from Komsomol for telling lies about our country to a young visitor from Austria. Expulsion from Komsomol, of course, automatically meant expulsion from the university. Who took the decision to expel her from Komsomol? Metelius R.P., then joint-secretary of the Moscow State University branch, and chairman of the committee that considered Lippe’s case. And who confirmed the decision of Metelius R.P.? Churavayev K.S., member of the Executive Committee, Moscow District.’

Manning stared at Konstantin, who shrugged, and pushed his glasses up his nose.

‘That’s Soviet life, Paul. These things occur. As it happens, Lippe was a poor student. It could have been someone more valuable.’

‘Poor old Katya.’

‘Certainly.’

‘Do you often break people’s careers?’

‘I’ve confirmed five expulsions. None of them entirely without reason. One man later killed himself. He’d been expelled for stealing from girls he lived with. I tell you all this not because I’m proud of it, or even because I’m ashamed of it. I just want you to have a clear picture of me from the other side.’

He sounded rather depressed.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘someone guessed about Proctor-Gould. The K.G.B. – the G.R.U. I don’t know. Must have put them in a difficult position. Proctor-Gould has a very high standing in this country. Close personal links with a lot of senior people in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. People say he’s a friend of Mikoyan’s. Is that true?’

‘I’ve heard it said.’

‘Very difficult to make investigations without letting him know he was under suspicion. All right, search his room. But if what they were looking for was really well hidden it would mean coming back day after day. And if Proctor-Gould was a spy, he’d presumably have taken some precautions. People used to leave hairs in their papers, and that kind of thing. Do they still do that?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘I expect there’s some new trick. Anyway, he’d almost certainly have found out. Disposed of the evidence. Then complained to his friends in the Foreign Ministry.’

‘So they asked you?’

‘They asked Raya. It’s normal. A pretty girl – a loyal member of Komsomol. Working in the university like yourself. Natural for her to get to know first you, and then Proctor-Gould.’

‘It was done as cold-bloodedly as that?’

‘I’m afraid so, Paul. Don’t be downcast. She thought you were both terribly attractive. Told me so. Thought you were both wonderful. Particularly Proctor-Gould when he flew into a rage and threw the books about. She was really very impressed.’

‘The K.G.B.,’ said Manning, ‘just told her to go and live with Proctor-Gould?’

‘They weren’t quite that optimistic, Paul. They just asked her to get to know him, and see if she could get inside his room. Well, they didn’t know Raya as you and I know her. They underestimated her. Each morning she used to go and report progress to a fatherly man with sciatica in a little office behind the Izvestia building. When she went in and told him she was actually living in Proctor-Gould’s room, he jumped up like a kangaroo, he was so surprised. Brought on a violent spasm of sciatica. Almost killed him. Couldn’t do anything but bend over the desk and groan for ten minutes. Then he started shaking his head and saying he had a daughter himself. Never intended Raya to stoop to immorality, he said. Nevertheless, she stayed.’

‘I suppose Gordon and I both made complete fools of ourselves.’

Konstantin shrugged.

‘I warned him,’ said Manning. ‘I thought from the first that Raya was a bit too good to be true.’

‘I don’t want to moralize,’ said Konstantin. ‘But deceivers must expect to be deceived. Spies can’t complain if they’re spied on.’

‘This is where your thesis goes astray, Kostik. Gordon’s not a spy.’

‘How do you know, Paul?’

‘It’s not in his character.’

Konstantin waggled his head from side to side.

‘Character, character,’ he said. ‘If you were wrong about Raya, why do you think you understand Proctor-Gould?’

‘We come from similar backgrounds, Kostik. We were at the same university. And you get a certain insight into someone’s mind when you interpret for him. Honestly, Kostik, I understand Gordon and you don’t.’

Konstantin didn’t comment. He blinked, and wrinkled his nose up.

‘What you and I think doesn’t really matter,’ he said. ‘Our security forces think Gordon is carrying espionage materials. Gordon thinks he’s carrying espionage materials. Those two expert opinions are enough for our purposes.’

Manning stared at Konstantin.

‘God knows what your purposes are,’ he said. ‘If you think Gordon’s a spy, why don’t you go ahead and have him arrested? Why are you arguing it out with me?’

‘I shall explain.’

Suddenly Manning believed he saw the reason. A warmth ran through him, as if he had taken a draught of scalding coffee.

‘You’re warning us,’ he said. ‘You’re giving us a chance to get out.’