Every Spy a Traitor, page 7
He leant back, not taking his eyes off him. Branstone wasn’t sure how to react, other than to ask a lot of questions, but he wasn’t sure if that was permitted.
‘What we’re asking,’ said the Scotsman, ‘is for you to work for this country while you are in Moscow. Obviously, you will do what the Soviets ask in terms of the icons, but we have a number of specific requests. Firstly, we would like you to provide us with as much detail as possible of what you see in the Kremlin: its layout, names on doors of offices, security arrangements, that kind of thing.
‘We’ll want the names and positions of everyone you meet. And perhaps most importantly, we want to know who else from this country is in Moscow. We know that there are dozens of British communists in the city, perhaps in excess of a hundred. Some of them we know about: a few of them are there under their own names, but not many. Most of them use assumed names. They’re there for a variety of reasons, few of which are likely to be in the interests of this country, and we need to know as much about them as possible – where they’re from; what names they’re using; what they’re up to in Moscow and what they look like…’
‘What they look like?’ It was the first time Branstone had spoken.
‘You’ll be given one of these, Branstone.’ The Scotsman produced a small metal box from his pocket and held it up. It was about the size of a packet of ten cigarettes, possibly smaller, certainly slimmer. ‘It’s a camera produced by a company called Minox in Latvia. They began to produce them last year and they enable one to take photographs surreptitiously of documents, people and buildings. We don’t believe that the Soviets will suspect you because they recruited you to go there. Nonetheless, you and all your luggage will be closely searched when you get there, so this will be passed to you when you’re in Moscow. And don’t look so worried – you’ll get ample training.’
‘That’s not so much what I’m worried about.’
‘What is it then?’
‘Well, you’re asking me to be a spy!’
‘Don’t think of it as spying, Branstone: that’s the stuff of cheap adventure books one buys on station platforms. Think of it as gathering information to help out your country. You are a patriot, aren’t you?’
‘Well, yes… of course, I suppose I must be, Dr Paxton; I mean I—’
‘Well then, there we are: it will just be a matter of keeping your eyes and ears open, remembering what you see and taking the odd snap here and there. Get whatever you can from inside the Kremlin and the more you can pick up on our fellow countrymen in Moscow the better.’
‘What about if I were to have reservations?’
‘What kind of reservations, Branstone?’
‘For a start, I’m not the brave sort: I’m probably a bit of a coward, if I’m honest. And more to the point, I fear my academic integrity may be compromised. It somehow doesn’t feel right. I’ll be there as their guest, after all.’
The Scotsman made a snorting sound and rolled his eyes. Paxton replied.
‘I’m afraid, Branstone, that when the security of this country is at stake, matters like that are irrelevant. If the communists get their way and take over this country then I can assure you there’ll be precious little academic integrity or freedom: the likes of you and me will be lined up against a wall and shot or, if we’re very lucky, sent to work in a mine for seven days a week. Do you fancy that? So that’s why we’re asking you to do this: to help your country out. The more we know what the Soviets are up to and who’s helping them, the more we can protect this country from them.’
When the Scotsman asked Branstone if it was fair to assume he was ‘on board’, the young man said he was – though not with an enormous amount of conviction, it had to be said.
* * *
‘Hardly first-rate agent material, Paxton.’
‘I know, but he’s in a unique position to pick up intelligence for us.’
‘Do you think he’s up to it?’
‘He’s a bright enough chap – and speaks Russian.’
‘Doesn’t make him an agent. We all know what that entails – agents need nerves of steel and with the best will in the world Branstone’s made of more pliable stuff. And you’re absolutely sure, are you, Paxton, about his politics – no chance he could be a secret socialist?’
‘I’ve checked him out thoroughly: everyone agrees he’s never shown the slightest awareness let alone interest in politics. He’s got no links with any of those left-wing tutors or public schoolboys flirting with socialism. I’m absolutely confident on that score.’
‘Very well then, we go ahead with it. What’s the worst that could happen?’
* * *
Austin Branstone had a week of sleepless nights prior to his visit to Moscow. As much as he relished the opportunity to study the icons in the Kremlin, the thought of being obliged to act as a British spy had driven him to the edge of a nervous breakdown. All he could think about was being arrested and beaten up and probably tortured and being sent to one of the dreadful prison camps and he wondered how he’d cope with his asthma and no doubt the British Embassy would wash their hands of him, say they’d never heard of him before.
Two days before his departure he asked to see Professor Hatherley and informed him he wanted to pull out of the visit and when he asked him why he said the Provost would understand and within an hour Branstone was standing in the Provost’s study like a pupil about to be punished.
The Provost made it clear that while they couldn’t force him to go to Moscow, he should nevertheless understand that should he decide not to then there’d be consequences.
‘By which I mean you’ll be out of a job, Branstone, and I can assure you, you won’t find another post at Cambridge or even Oxford, for that matter. I imagine you’ll have to resort to teaching some subject no one else wants to teach at some minor public school and forgetting about your precious icons. Do you fancy that?’
‘Of course not, sir.’
‘Well then, Branstone, I suggest you pull yourself together and start packing your suitcase.’
* * *
But it hadn’t been nearly as bad as he’d feared. The Russians proved to be hospitable hosts and couldn’t do enough for him. They put him up at the Moskva Hotel on Manezhka Square and he had to say his room was a considerable improvement on his one at King’s. For a start it was warm and there was no draught and he had his own bathroom with ample hot water and there was a very helpful lady behind a desk at the end of his corridor who looked after his room key and gave him towels and soap as he needed them.
For the first couple of days he was shown round Moscow and taken to visit a collective farm and a factory making machine tools, whatever they were, and Branstone had to say that it all seemed to be very efficient and neat and tidy and the ordinary people he met were rather charming and although they didn’t have a lot to say for themselves, they did seem to be happy.
He was no communist, of course, but he had to admit that things were most certainly not as bleak or oppressive as he’d been given to understand they could be.
And then he began his work.
He was looked after very nicely by two gentlemen he nicknamed Big Boris and Little Boris who accompanied him all the time. Each morning one would be waiting outside his room at seven o’clock and then accompany him to breakfast in the hotel’s vast dining room and from there to the Kremlin.
Once inside the Kremlin they’d walk to Cathedral Square, ringed by palaces to the west and churches to the east.
Most of the icons were in the three largest cathedrals; the Archangel Michael, the Annunciation and the Dormition, with more in the smaller Cathedral of the Twelve Apostles within the Patriarch’s Palace. Branstone was based in the Terem Palace. He had a large room with an enormous table and icons would be brought for him to study one by one and after each one he’d dictate his report to a terribly obliging young man called Pavel whose English was excellent, and later that day the report would be brought for him to sign and although Branstone noticed some phrases had been altered and one or two sections added, he was happy to sign because it wasn’t as if he had much time and there were an awful lot of icons for him to view!
In the evenings he’d eat in the Moskva with Big Boris and Little Boris sitting nearby. After a couple of weeks, they began to take him to restaurants in the city, though in truth he found them rather noisy and there was a bit too much drinking.
Usually, lunch was brought to him in his room at the Terem Palace but as April turned into May and it became warmer, he decided he’d ask if he could have a stroll at lunchtime to get some fresh air and Big Boris and Little Boris seemed fine with that, just as long as he stayed within the Kremlin and, more particularly, around Cathedral Square.
He realised of course that he wasn’t entirely on his own: either Big Boris or Little Boris would always follow him.
And so, one day in early May he was on his lunchtime walk and this time he was being followed by Big Boris, who tended to move surprisingly slowly for someone whose job was apparently to follow other people.
As Branstone passed the Ivan the Great Bell Tower he noticed that Big Boris was now nowhere to be seen, so he decided to head on towards the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet and the Council of Ministers building, the two great edifices of the Soviet state, on the side of the Kremlin overlooking Red Square.
And that was where he saw him.
He spotted him as he left the Council of Ministers building, a little uncertain, as if he didn’t know his way around as he emerged from the heavily guarded doors and made his way down the flight of steps, but he carried on and headed south in Branstone’s direction and there was something about his appearance that alerted him.
The man walking towards him didn’t look like the other men he’d become used to seeing walking around Moscow. At first, it was hard to put his finger on it, but as the man approached, Branstone realised what it was. The man was not quite six foot but looked distinguished, not unlike the king who’d recently abdicated, as it happened, and was dressed differently. His hat, his shoes, his smart overcoat and the suit visible underneath it was of an altogether superior quality to what he’d become used to seeing in recent weeks. He looked every inch a man dressed by the best of British tailors, shoemakers and hatters rather than by a Soviet factory rushing to meet their production targets.
If he was English that really was something because the Kremlin was such a restricted area and the Council of Ministers particularly so and Dr Paxton’s colleague at that hotel in London had been quite insistent that they were most interested in anything he could pick up about his fellow countrymen in Moscow.
In itself, he wouldn’t have thought much more than that, but there was something far more shocking as they walked past each other, just a yard apart at the most. Branstone was able to get a good look, because the man was looking to his left, towards the Supreme Soviet building and wouldn’t have noticed Branstone – not that many people did. And there was something strikingly familiar about the man, though for the life of him he couldn’t think what it was.
So he decided to follow him as he headed south, in the direction of the Kremlin Gardens. The man paused by the Kremlin Wall, looking around him in the curious manner one does in a place one is unfamiliar with. Austin Branstone kept his distance. There was still no sign of Big Boris behind him and as the man came alongside one of the towers on the southern wall Branstone held back until he entered it and then hurried along to enter it himself.
It was the Taynitskaya Tower, one he’d visited on a lunchtime walk the previous week. Its name meant ‘the secret’ tower due to its tunnel leading to the river, now bricked up. It was dark inside, hard to make out much more than shapes, but Branstone spotted the man, looking around and when he turned round Branstone decided to take the plunge. Showing a degree of courage and resolve that surprised him, he waited until the man walked past him and then – when the man was halfway out of the tower and his back facing him – spoke.
‘I say, you wouldn’t happen to know where the Komendantskaya Tower is, by any chance? I seem to have been going round in circles!’
In English.
And the man immediately turned round. He’d removed his hat revealing his fair hair and now Branstone had an even better view of him and was even more convinced he’d met him before.
‘I’m afraid not; I’m something of a stranger here myself. I imagine if you keep walking round the walls you’ll sooner or later come to it!’
The two men chuckled for a moment or two and Branstone was about to ask what the man was doing there and introduce himself – he’d say his name was Charles West – when the man suddenly looked shocked, as if he’d only just realised he’d made a mistake by speaking in English. He turned around and hurried away.
Branstone began to follow him, but was soon spotted by Big Boris. It was time to return to the Terem Palace.
Now he had something to tell the man from the embassy.
* * *
‘The best thing, Branstone, would be to calm down, have a drink, get your breath back and then tell us the whole story.’
George Banks – who Branstone knew as ‘Paul’ – was acting in an avuncular manner, a hand on Austin Branstone’s shoulder and smiling pleasantly at him. Milo Smart – who’d been introduced as ‘Peter’ – was impressed. Banks was good at this. The arrangements for the meeting were most impressive.
After sending the message through the concierge, Branstone had told the two Borises he’d like to take up their suggestion to have dinner that evening at the Yar on Kuznetsky Most, not too far from the Lubyanka, as it happened. Meanwhile, Banks and Smart had arrived at the Ziyofat, a bleak Uzbek restaurant diagonally opposite the Yar, from where in an upper room they’d watched Branstone and the other two arrive and then at the agreed hour saw him emerge from a side entrance and hurry across the road before disappearing from view.
It was a tense couple of minutes. Milo Smart could hear his own breathing and felt sweat running freely inside his shirt and wondered whether he ought to have brought a pistol or, indeed, whether he ought to have been there at all, but Banks was very calm and must have sensed he was worried because he told him everything would be fine.
Moments later the door opened and Ruslan, the manager of the Ziyofat – and one of Banks’s best agents in Moscow – showed Branstone in.
The young man was in such a state he could barely talk and his protruding ears were bright red and Banks told him to calm down and have a drink, which he did.
‘What did you tell them?’
‘I said I wanted to use the lavatory. When I return, I’ll say I felt sick and needed fresh air and then got lost.’
‘Very well, but we need to be quick. Ruslan will ensure you get out of here without being seen. What is it that’s so urgent?’
Austin Branstone described the encounter in the Taynitskaya Tower.
‘And you’re certain he was English.’
‘Absolutely, sir, no question whatsoever.’
‘And you say he came out of the Council of Ministers building?’
‘Definitely.’
‘And you think you recognised him but couldn’t place him?’
‘Well, this is the thing, sir: at the time, there was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t place him – wracked my brain over it. Then last night I woke up with a start and recalled where I was sure I’d seen him.
‘I was an accomplished chess player when I was an undergraduate: I still play occasionally, but nothing like as much as I used to. I represented my college in my first year at Cambridge and in Easter term we travelled to Oxford to play a tournament at Merton College, though there were also teams from at least a couple of other Oxford colleges taking part.
‘As far as I recall, we each played three games and in my last one I was up against a student who seemed a year or two older than me and was one of those upper-class, public-school types who act as if they owned the place. He was very arrogant – hardly exchanged a word with me and had a haughty manner about him, and what I’d describe as a sneering expression: very much the way people from that background acted towards what they took to be grammar-school boys. They still behave like that. Can I ask, do you know much about chess?’
George Banks shrugged and said a little, but he glanced at his watch and said he really ought to get a move on.
‘Well, to cut a long story short, I trapped this chap with a four-move checkmate called the Scholar’s Mate. It’s really not a move an experienced player should fall for and it’s somewhat humiliating to lose a game in that manner, especially so quickly. I remember that there were a few people watching and there was some laughter when I won with that move. My opponent was absolutely furious, presumably not just because he’d lost but more so at the humiliating manner of it. He got up and stormed off and didn’t even shake my hand.’
Branstone paused and there was a broad grin on his face, presumably at the memory of a famous victory, and Milo Smart looked anxiously at George Banks who glanced again at his watch and told Branstone he needed to come to the point.
‘This was the chap I bumped into in the Kremlin, you see – the chap I beat with the Scholar’s Mate!’
‘Really – you’re that sure?’
‘What you need to realise is that I’ve an excellent memory for faces: it’s one of the reasons I can analyse icons so well, the figures in them are familiar to me. I spot recurring themes.’
‘Even so, Branstone, we’re talking about someone you saw, what… ten years ago? Quite something to recognise him here in the middle of Moscow and be certain of it.’
‘I do realise that.’
‘And he didn’t recognise you?’
‘He certainly didn’t show any sign of doing so. In any case, my appearance has changed somewhat since my undergraduate days.’ Branstone ran his hand over his bald head and smiled.
