Every Spy a Traitor, page 11
Cooper was intrigued with this group, for obvious reasons. It was usually a slightly larger group than the Americans. There was little notable about them: he could have been sitting near such a group in any pub on any evening in London and not cast them a second glance, but here they took on an air of mystery.
One of them did intrigue him: a tall, thickset man with bushy, almost owl-like eyebrows who sat slightly apart from the rest of the group, as if both part of it and yet separate to it at the same time.
On his third or fourth evening in Moscow, Cooper was five minutes into his stroll when he became aware of someone walking alongside him.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’
Cooper looked over and recognised the man from the English group in the bar, the one with the bushy eyebrows, and said of course.
‘Harry Moore, but the Russians have already given me a nickname: Sova – do you know what that means?’
Cooper shook his head and the man pointed to his eyebrows and winked. ‘It’s Russian for owl!’
They shook hands and Cooper said he was George Hobson.
‘I know. From Ireland. Whereabouts?’
‘Dublin.’
‘A city I know well! And where in Dublin?’
Cooper slowed down and inhaled deeply. ‘Rathmines, just south of the city centre.’ That was the sum total of his knowledge of where he came from and he was conscious that his accent betrayed not a hint of Irish to it.
‘I know Rathmines well! I stayed for a while on Grosvenor Square. And where do you live, George?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Where do you live in Rathmines?’
‘Well, I’ve not lived there in a while, Harry, and when I did, we were forever moving.’
‘So where are you living these days?’
‘I was in London for a few years and then Birmingham and recently I’ve been in Berlin.’
Harry nodded as if to show he understood.
‘And I’m guessing by your name and your accent that you’d have gone to the Church of Ireland School on Beech Avenue?’
‘Many, many years ago, yes! And may I ask where you’re from, Harry?’
‘And I bet you know the Lantern public house on the Leinster Road, eh?’
Harry Moore laughed as he asked that, and Cooper joined in and said ‘of course’ and asked him once more where he was from but, by now, they’d walked round the block and were close to the entrance of the Lux and Moore stopped and was facing him.
‘You’re not from Rathmines or Dublin for that matter any more than I’m from Bulgaria. There’s no Lantern pub on the Leinster Road and the Church of Ireland school isn’t on Beech Road, not least because there’s no Beech Road! Let’s go and have a drink.’
They found a quiet corner of the bar and Harry Moore brought him a large vodka and a glass of Zhigulevskoye and told him that everyone at the Lux had their secrets.
‘We all have something to hide – something to be furtive about – otherwise we wouldn’t be here, would we? For all you know, I may not be Harry Moore. But the point is, for whatever reason you’re here, you have got to come across as more… plausible. I’ve been watching you, others have too: whoever you are and whatever you do, you’ve got to be more confident and more convincing. Don’t walk around looking so nervous. Whose idea was it to give you an Irish identity?’
Copper didn’t reply.
‘Don’t tell me, in fact, don’t tell me anything because the less you know here the less dangerous it is. But I do think they can be terribly amateurish at times, throwing you into the deep end like this.’
Chapter 10
Moscow
July–August 1937
On the evening of his fourth day in Moscow there’d been an odd incident. By then Cooper had come to realise that despite Grigory’s instructions not to use the stairs, most people did so because the lifts took so long and frequently took breaks between floors.
He was using the stairs to get to his floor when he heard a ‘psst’ and turned round to see a slim, short man with thick black hair standing in the doorway to the first floor.
‘French?’ Cooper explained he wasn’t French, but spoke the language. The man did too.
‘Can you help me? It’s a misunderstanding and not a big problem but, to be honest, I could do without even a small problem. Can you go and get the key for your room from your floor lady, open the door and then go back and distract her so I can get into your room? I’ll explain.’
Before he had an opportunity to ask any questions Cooper found himself pushed through the door to the second floor and once he had the key and unlocked his door he went back to the floor lady and made a fuss about a new towel and some soap, too, and when he returned to the room the man was sitting on his bed.
He got up and introduced himself. His name was Amadeo Moretti from Turin and a senior member of the Italian Communist Party. And he was in trouble.
‘We have a saying in Italy that every member of the communist party is his or her own faction and as a result we squabble all the time and of course Mussolini is our enemy, so leading members like me are here in Moscow – and the squabbling continues: we’re like children!
‘The problem is that I come from a family that has nobility in it and therefore some of my compatriots here distrust me. Tonight, there’s been an argument: they are accusing me of being a fascist agent and a Trotskyite and an embezzler and anything else they can think of. But tomorrow Togliatti arrives in Moscow. He’s the party secretary and he’s aware of my loyalty. When he arrives, it’ll be fine… but until then, I’ve no idea what could happen. So if I could sleep on the floor and maybe borrow a blanket and one pillow, I’ll be eternally grateful!’
He and Amadeo Moretti talked into the early hours. The man certainly had an aristocratic bearing, but he was also by far the most likeable person Cooper had come across in Moscow. He felt a real affinity to him and liked the fact that the Italian didn’t pry: he let Cooper tell him as much as he wanted to – which wasn’t an awful lot.
He wasn’t sure what to say.
* * *
When he came down to breakfast the following morning Eduard was at his table, already halfway through his meal.
‘How are you enjoying Moscow?’ Eduard was lighting a cigarette as he spoke, in English, the first time Cooper had heard him speak it.
‘It’s certainly different: very hot and muggy. And it seems that there are only certain areas I’m allowed in, it makes strolling around rather difficult.’
‘Is there somewhere in particular you’d like to visit? I can arrange it.’
‘Not really, it’s just that I don’t know my way around, if you get my meaning. I did ask Grigory for a map but…’
Eduard waved his hand as if to indicate he should forget about a map: he wasn’t here to talk about tourism. ‘I promised to help you find a publisher. I decided it would be rude not to make the introduction in person, hence my presence in Moscow. This morning we’ll go to meet a publisher who’s interested to meet you. Finish your breakfast first.’
* * *
Cooper was unsure of where he was being driven to. They seemed to cross the river twice and the building they stopped at seemed to be somewhere off Lenninskij Prospekt. The publisher’s office was in an enormous building that looked as if it had seen much better days, which he was coming to realise was a description that could be applied to much of what he’d seen of Moscow. The exterior and the common areas inside were dirty and such paint as had been applied – many years before, evidently – was peeling.
Cooper followed Eduard up endless flights of stairs and the two of them stood together on a gloomy landing, pausing to catch their breath.
‘In here.’ Eduard paused and pointed to a door a few yards ahead of them. ‘You’ll be introduced as Charles Cooper, by the way.’
Cooper followed Eduard through one door, down a corridor and into a reception area, which in contrast to the rest of the building was very pleasant: bright and airy with paintings of mountains on the walls next to ones of Stalin and Lenin and boxes of books stacked on the floor. A young man – early thirties, possibly – was waiting for them, greeting them with a broad smile and enthusiastic handshakes and a deferential nod to Eduard, who he gave every impression of not having met before.
He took them into an office swathed in sunlight, slightly too warm, and as a consequence Cooper was particularly uncomfortable, his clothes itchy and clammy, not helped by the plastic chair.
The meeting was conducted in English. Eduard explained how he’d had the good fortune to meet Mr Cooper in Berlin – ‘quite by chance, you understand’ – and they’d discussed literature among many other matters and he found Mr Cooper to be an intelligent man with many interests, so imagine his delight when he discovered Mr Cooper was writing a novel and given how sympathetic Mr Cooper was to the ideals of the Soviet Union he’d undertaken to do what he could to help him, so he’d arranged his visit to Moscow and here they were!
Cooper nodded at what he took to be the right points, though his sympathy for the ideals of the Soviet Union was news to him.
The young man looked impressed and said his name was Misha Mikhailovich Abramov, at which point he stood up once more to shake hands again and Cooper realised that Misha was quite nervous, glancing anxiously at Eduard, giving the impression he didn’t want to say the wrong thing.
‘I am an editor here at Goslitizdat, or the State Publishing House of Fiction, as it is also known. We specialise in publishing fiction as is apparent from our name, but we also look to publish works of fiction by foreign writers. We are always on the lookout for new writers – unpublished elsewhere – and recently we have decided to explore the possibility of a list by foreign writers being published first in Russian, as opposed to being published in their own language first and then in translation by us. We also work with some foreign publishers and look to publish simultaneously in Russian and in the language of the author. In fact, we do have an informal partnership with a London publishing house. I hope this all makes sense.’
Cooper replied that it did, though he wasn’t too sure.
‘Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me about your novel?’
Cooper started to describe his novel, though he soon recognised he was making something of a hash of it. He was, in his defence, dreadfully uncomfortable: he was far too hot, sweat was flowing freely under his clothes and from his brow and he was desperate to remove his jacket and his tie too, but from what he’d seen this was not the done thing. He spoke about his novel, how it was planned to be read at different levels, as a crime novel following a diamond thief around Europe but also using her journeys as a way of describing – commentating on, if you like – the political situation on the Continent as she found it. He spotted Misha’s eyebrows rise at this point, as if to indicate he was interested, so Cooper warmed to his theme of politics and described in some details the unpleasantness of what he’d encountered in Nazi Germany, hoping that at the very least he’d be on safe ground there. He realised he’d left out his own role in this, the narrator, the flâneur. He’d keep that up his sleeve, as he would her visit to Moscow.
‘And this Louise, I think you called her, the diamond thief… what is her role in Nazi Germany? I’m a bit unclear.’
‘I see her as an observer, someone used to working in the shadows, if you like, particularly alert as to what is going on around her and she is appalled at what she sees and is—’
‘She’s an anti-fascist?’
‘Absolutely, Eduard, yes.’
‘So, the anti-fascist heroine of your novel is a thief, is she?’ Eduard sounded put-out.
‘I do see what you mean, but in English folklore we have a very popular character called Robin Hood who is said to have existed some five hundred years ago and he robbed from the rich to help the poor. I would see Louise as very much in this mould and—’
‘You’re writing a children’s book, then?’
‘No, not at all.’
An awkward silence fell over the room and Misha lit a cigarette and removed his jacket and loosened his tie and Cooper did likewise, at last feeling more comfortable. He explained how the novel was still in its very early stages and he was sorry if his description of it was not as clear as he’d have liked and Misha said, no… not at all, it was actually very interesting indeed and he waved his hand expansively, his cigarette moving like a conductor’s baton and a trail of smoke tracing its path.
‘I would agree with you that your novel is lacking in structure and is still clearly what one would describe as being in its very early stages, but that is understood. I am suspicious of any author who presents the idea for a book as if it is the finished article. A book needs to evolve, characters need to come to life as it is written and as they do so, take the story in different directions in accordance with their own characteristics. But I like the ambition of your novel, the scale of it. Do you follow me?’
‘I hope so, it’s terribly nice of you to say so.’
‘You know, it reminds me in many ways of some of the great Russian novels: the fact that it is rooted in realism and doesn’t avoid or skirt round important political and social issues and also, as I said, the planned scale of the novel: it almost has the feel of a saga. I’m thinking of Tolstoy and Pushkin and… How old are you, Mr Cooper?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Dostoevsky had written two novels by the time he was twenty-six. In some cultures, your youth would be seen as a disadvantage, but here… not at all.’
They talked for another hour, during which time a bottle of vodka was brought in and this was used for various toasts, ranging from literature in general to Cooper’s own book and to peace in Europe and the defeat of fascism and then Eduard added in a toast to socialism and this being the only way of defeating fascism and bringing about peace and by now Cooper had drunk half a dozen glasses of vodka and, as small as they were, he was thinking that it was not such a foul drink after all and he found himself surprisingly emotional and continued Eduard’s theme by promising that his novel would certainly promote that theme.
Eduard announced that the meeting was perhaps nearing its end.
‘You have some concluding remarks, I believe, Misha Mikhailovich?’
‘Yes, yes, of course…’ Misha looked a bit flustered, as if trying to remember his line, and seemed to be searching for some paperwork on his desk. ‘We at Goslitizdat would like to work with you, Mr Cooper. We realise your novel is still at a very early stage, but we think the concept has undoubted promise. We believe it would be a sign of goodwill on both our part and yours if you were to sign this document – it simply states that we now have a relationship and we have the first option on your novel.’
Misha held up a document and passed it to Cooper, who leafed through its eight pages, all but two of which were in Russian. For something which apparently simply stated that Goslitizdat had an option on his novel it appeared quite extensive. The Russian pages in particular were densely typed.
‘The English section will explain what the Russian says: simply that you will produce a novel and share it with us through our English partners, and if it helps, I think this is their kind of book, in any case. Their details are on page four, I believe.’
Cooper turned to page four, where the name and address of the publisher were underlined:
Francis Randall
Chairman
Francis Randall Books
Store Street
London WC1
‘Do you know of them?’
‘Not off the top of my head, no… one doesn’t really pay much attention to the name of a publisher, does one?’ Cooper read through the English text. ‘And there’s a reference here to an advance?’
Misha glanced over to Eduard who waved his hand as if to indicate this was a trifling matter. ‘It’s simply a gesture on our part to show our intent and also to acknowledge that authors do need financial support while they are writing a book. Once you sign the document we will transfer that money to your bank account in London, which I believe is at Martins Bank Limited?’
Cooper was about to ask how he knew who he banked with but worried that could sound ungrateful so he said, ‘thank you very much’ and asked how much money they were talking about?
Misha shrugged. ‘The sum we would advance to you is fifty pounds: I know that is not a lot but—’
‘It’s an awful lot considering I’ve not started the book yet.’
Eduard stood up at that point and handed a pen to Cooper.
‘Sign here – and write your full name and date of birth and today’s date underneath your signature and then sign the bottom of each page.’
Cooper hesitated. ‘You want me to sign pages in a language I don’t understand?’
‘I think Misha Mikhailovich has explained matters most clearly: please sign now.’
* * *
It would be an exaggeration to say that Charles Cooper immediately regretted signing the document, though it would be fair to say he had his doubts about it. He’d be the first to admit that he knew little about the business of publishing, other than it was not easy for a first-time writer to get published, especially one who had not even written the book yet.
And on top of that, this was a Moscow publishing house being surprisingly generous with their money – to the extent that they were able and willing to advance a not inconsiderable sum equivalent, more or less, to six months of his previous salary.
And then there was the whole matter of how they knew his bank account details.
But as the evening wore on Cooper decided this was all just another example of his excessive caution. He knew he needed to relax more, to take advantage of good fortune that came his way, as it had with his inheritance.
He was a lucky man and he really ought not to question it.
