1989, page 10
She couldn’t help a snort of laughter. ‘That’s rich, coming from you. Captain Risk himself.’
He looked offended. ‘I always calculate the lie of the land before I make my move.’
‘That’s not how you got your medals at Monte Cassino.’ She tempered her sharpness with a smile.
‘But it might be how you get your stripes behind the Iron Curtain.’
She recognised a sensible exit point, and no more had been said. And now she was trying to work out what to pack for February in Vilnius. Snow on the ground, meetings with government ministers, knocking a few heads together at Pythagoras Press, maybe a dinner or two, then dressing down to meet the people who had ambitions to be the new masters. Not to mention a few forthcoming publications to hand around like sweets to the children.
It was going to take more than one suitcase, for sure.
When it came to passport control and immigration in Soviet bloc countries, there were definite advantages to being Wallace Lockhart’s daughter. Pythagoras Press was a beloved and respected source of hard currency; if they’d had an aristocracy in Lithuania, she’d have been considered part of it. Even flying in on a commercial flight rather than the private jet, Genevieve didn’t have to join one of the endless snaking queues at Vilnius airport. She was whisked off the plane ahead of the other passengers and escorted to the terminal by a blank-faced man in uniform. She wasn’t sure if he was a soldier, a policeman or state security, but none of those were grounds for concern to a woman in her position.
No matter how often she travelled in Eastern Europe. Genevieve was always struck by two things. Everything was drab. And every public space smelled of cheap tobacco and stale bodies. If those Trots selling Socialist Worker outside the Lockharts’ buildings had to spend a month in a communist country, they’d run home and vote Tory. Except maybe Cuba, she conceded to herself. At least the sun shone and those ancient American cars that grunted their way round Havana did add a certain faded glamour.
On the far side of the formalities, Genevieve scanned the noisy crowd of eager citizens waiting to meet and greet. On the far left, appropriately enough, she spotted the familiar head of Tavas Nagaitis. He looked exactly as she remembered – same dark brown hair styled like a crash helmet framing the face of a rodent with its bright eyes, sharp nose and little pointed teeth peeking out from a thin smile; same shiny blue suit, white shirt and tightly knotted brown tie. He wasn’t holding up a sign with her name or the company emblazoned on it. No need to advertise when they both knew who they were looking for. She waited for him to push through the throng and greet her. No point in lugging a heavy case any further than she had to.
They exchanged meaningless pleasantries in Russian. Genevieve knew she was a little rusty, but experience told her she’d be back up to speed by morning if she spent the evening in her room watching Russian TV or talking to Nagaitis. He led her out of the arrivals hall and she exchanged the intense smell of cigarettes for the equally intense reek of car exhausts, clouds of peculiar sweetness hanging in the freezing air. Nagaitis had parked at the kerb, which meant he’d had to bribe the policeman standing next to his mustard-coloured Kombi. He opened the passenger door for her then stowed her luggage.
‘I have a new car,’ he said proudly as they set off. ‘The last time your father was here, he said he was ashamed to be seen in my old Moskvitch.’ He flashed a cheeky grin at her. ‘So you can tell him you were picked up in an almost-new Izhevsk. Very smart. You won’t see many of these on the road round here.’
‘So that’s where all the profits are going, Tavas,’ she said.
He gave her a slightly alarmed look before he caught sight of her mischievous expression and relaxed. ‘I forgot your sense of humour,’ he said.
What she’d forgotten were the potholes that made drivers swerve and weave as though they were drunk. Genevieve hung on grimly to the door handle and looked out of the window. They passed ranks of housing blocks that could have been parachuted into any Soviet city without anyone noticing. Then the city park with its statue of Lenin, a copy of the familiar one at the Finland station. Genevieve knew it was heresy, but she always thought Vladimir Ilyich looked like he was hailing a taxi.
Nagaitis, as usual, was determined to remind her of the city sights, choosing his route to accommodate that. The odd couple of Vilnius hove into sight – the white cathedral with its neoclassical pillared portico that could have been mistaken for a museum, and its nearby bell tower, which resembled a lighthouse stranded three hundred miles from the nearest sea. It invariably made her smile; but then in Vilnius, you took your laughs where you could.
When they arrived at the Europa Hotel, Genevieve put a hand on his arm to delay him jumping out and getting her cases. ‘I’d like to talk to you privately this evening. Is there somewhere we can go for a drink without being overheard?’
He thought for a moment. ‘There are bars in the old town that are too busy for hidden microphones to make sense of conversations. With lots of dark corners where we can sit close enough to be private. Is this acceptable?’ His eyes were anxious. It wasn’t uncommon to see anxiety in people who worked closely with her father. Genevieve was trying to do things differently. Ideally under her father’s radar.
‘Perfect. How do we do this without attracting attention?’
He gave her a sidelong look. ‘You dress too brightly. Imagine you are going to meet the undersecretary for Industrial Production. Do you have a beret? No? Then wear a scarf over your hair. And less make-up, please.’ He was enjoying this rather too much, she thought. ‘I will knock on your door in an hour. The hotel lobby will be busy then. There is a group of engineers here for a conference, they will be returning from a day touring factories. We can leave without being noticed.’
‘How do you know about the engineers?’
He looked pleased with himself. ‘We hosted a reception for them yesterday. Pythagoras publish one of their journals.’
It was as absurd as a bad spy movie. But this was his world and she had no choice but to rely on Nagaitis. When he collected her, they made it outside without apparently attracting any attention. He led her through the streets and alleys of the dimly lit old town. Frost stippled the cobbles and their breath clouded the air. Genevieve cast backward looks at every corner but saw no sign of a tail. Ten minutes after leaving the hotel, they squeezed into a tiny corner booth in a crowded bar in the old town with a couple of sweating glasses of beer.
‘Is this what you wanted?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘It’s perfect.’
‘You mind if I smoke?’
‘Tavas, we’re the only table in the room where nobody’s smoking, so you’d better.’ She waited till he’d lit his cigarette. ‘I wanted to talk to you privately because we have some concerns about what’s happening in Lithuania. Politically,’ she added hastily, seeing the look of panic in his eyes. ‘We’re happy with how you’re running the business here. But we keep our ears close to the ground, and we sense change is coming in the Soviet bloc.’ She paused.
A furtive glance to check nobody was paying them any attention. ‘Gorbachev,’ he said. ‘He’s a very different kind of leader.’
‘We want to pre-empt any potential problems. Any changes that have to be accommodated.’ She waited but he said nothing. ‘We know there are protest movements gaining momentum. And we want to engage with them, Tavas.’
His eyes widened and he licked his thin lips. ‘You say “we”. Do you mean Pythagoras Press or you alone?’
‘My father and I are together in this.’ She grinned. ‘He knows why I am here. The only reason he’s not with me is he’s too well known.’ She made a small gesture that encompassed the room. ‘Can you imagine my father in a bar like this? People would be queuing up to shake his hand. The secret police would have his every move covered and he’d be recognised on every street corner. Whereas I can operate under the radar.’
He finished his beer in one gulp and stood up. ‘I need another drink. Would you like one?’
Genevieve shook her head. She watched his progress to the bar, checking he spoke to no one but the barman. When he sat down again, plonking a glass of vodka on the table, she smiled. ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of, Tavas. We value you. Whatever happens, you’ll still be our man in Lithuania.’
‘Why do you think I can help you with this? What have I ever done to make you think I am a traitor?’ His fingertips were dancing on the tabletop and out of the corner of her eye she could see his leg jumping.
‘I don’t think you’re a traitor. From everything I’ve seen of you, I think you love your country. That’s why I believe you’ll already have opened channels to the people who are looking forward to a different future. One where you can be your own masters again.’ She let that lie in the open between them.
Nagaitis fussed with another cigarette rather than meet her eyes. He exhaled a stream out of the side of his mouth, drained the vodka and shrugged. ‘Miss Lockhart – for a very long time, even thinking what you have just said was impossible.’
‘I know. But something is happening now, right across all the Soviet republics. It’s not like Hungary in 1956 or Czechoslovakia in 1968, where it was just one country standing up to Moscow. My father has connections right across the Soviet Union and he’s convinced that something’s stirring, all over the bloc, from the Caucasus to the Baltic.’ Genevieve spread her hands in a gesture of openness. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Tavas. He’s not coming at this from an ideological perspective. My father doesn’t care what system of government you have, just so long as he can work within it.’
He sighed. ‘He is a capitalist.’
‘And you’ve done rather well out of that,’ she said drily. ‘And if I can make the right connections now, everyone will benefit. Pythagoras continues its profitable relationships with your scientists and researchers. And just as we provided the biographies that painted your communist leaders in bright shining colours for their citizens, we’ll do the same for the new regime. They’ll need access to friendly media abroad, and we can offer them that too. Everybody will win, Tavas. And your new leaders will know they have you to thank for setting it all up.’ In the back of her head, she heard an echo of The Who’s ‘We Don’t Get Fooled Again’. All that stuff about the new boss being the same as the old boss . . .
‘You make it sound so easy,’ he grumbled. ‘You should know that nothing is ever this easy in my country.’
‘Set up a meeting, Tavas. Tomorrow, we’ll spend the day with your team reviewing Pythagoras business. And in the evening, you’ll introduce me to the future.’
His expression was despondent. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Genevieve had a vision of Ace Lockhart’s frown and knew what she had to say and how to say it. ‘Not good enough, Tavas. Make it happen.’ It was her father’s voice, alto rather than baritone. But unmistakable in every way that mattered.
17
Just before seven on Tuesday morning, Allie strode down the platform at Piccadilly station to the front carriage of the long intercity train. She always booked the front carriage, ready for a quick getaway when they reached London. The advantage of first class – paid for on expenses – was that she’d get breakfast and coffee on the train. It was a small trade-off for the monthly visit she had to make to attend the news conference of the Sunday Clarion.
Over the past couple of days, she’d shaken the trees and uncovered what exactly had happened to her story. She knew who’d made the decision to massacre her copy. She knew the freelance they’d used to wield the hatchet – a man who used to sit at the desk next to hers and whose outrage at being fired while she remained had almost turned to violence. She was armed and ready for the attack. First thing on Tuesday morning, before the schedules, before the conference, she’d be at her news editor’s throat.
For a brief moment, she considered the possibility of finding another job. But nobody was hiring in Manchester. She could probably go back to the Clarion in Glasgow, but her heart sank at the idea. Apart from Angus Carlyle, who had been bumped up from news editor to editor, she knew the same old faces would be writing the same terrible copy, drinking in the same terrible pubs and demonstrating the same terrible attitudes to anybody who didn’t look like them. Bad as things were, they really could be worse. She gritted her teeth and made for the exit.
The overstuffed tube was quicker than a cab in the rush hour. Who knew what it would be like once the Lockhart titles completed their move to the new plant somewhere in the far reaches of the East End? As far as Allie was concerned, that was uncharted territory.
She emerged from the underground at Chancery Lane on to streets that were almost as crowded. But at least the air was fresher than somebody’s armpit. Minutes later, she walked into the white marble foyer, flashed her company ID and made for the bank of lifts. Standing next to a silent bunch of people she didn’t know, Allie felt gratified yet again at having avoided a move to London. There had been offers over the past few years, both lucrative and professionally tempting. But she recoiled at the prospect of living in London.
It wasn’t city life she minded. She’d loved Glasgow, with its grand mercantile buildings, and she’d grown to love Manchester for similar reasons. They’d both been scoured to the bone by the economic policies of the last ten years, but even that couldn’t dampen the ‘fuck you’ spirit they both embraced. Glasgow was defiant, with its approaching City of Culture festival; there were rumours of Frank Sinatra performing at Ibrox football stadium, the very thought of which made Allie grin from ear to ear at its absurdity. And Manchester was clawing its way out of the depths with a combination of music, football and TV production. But the key thing about both of those cities as far as Allie was concerned was how easy it was to escape to the countryside. From the earliest days of their relationship, she and Rona had tried to get out of the city every weekend and into the green lungs of the hills. Sunday afternoon on a windy ridge was the flipside of Saturday-night clubbing.
London with its sprawl, its dirt and its perpetual thrum of traffic offered no easy escape. Allie and Rona had friends in the city who waxed lyrical about the Cotswolds and the South coast; every Friday, they packed up the car with a supermarket shop, sat in traffic queues and arrived in frazzled darkness at their second homes, then did the whole thing in reverse two days later, grumpy teenagers or tired toddlers grizzling in the back seat. And all that talk about access to culture? Allie reckoned she and Rona saw more theatre and visited more galleries in their trips to the capital than their resident friends ever managed. It was fun to visit London, no doubt about that. But living there wasn’t an option.
The lift arrived and they crammed in, speaking only to request floor numbers. Allie squeezed out at the sixth floor, squared her shoulders and pushed open the door into the newsroom. At quarter to ten on a Tuesday morning on a Sunday tabloid, most of the desks were empty. It would be half an hour before the reporters and photographers started to drift in. The secretaries were at their desks. The deputy and assistant news and picture editors conferred in tight little shirt-sleeved knots. Nobody looked up as Allie entered.
The man she wanted would be in his office. If the newsroom were a football pitch, Gerry Richardson’s glass-walled dugout would have been on the halfway line, perfectly poised to see exactly who was doing what. She knew he would have spotted her seconds after she’d walked in. As she approached, he waved her in with a generous gesture.
Everything about Richardson was tight. His skin seemed to have been stretched over his bones; his face looked as if he’d been trapped in a wind tunnel. His thin silver hair was sleek to his head. His body was wiry and spare. Instead of going to the pub at lunchtime, he stripped down to shorts and singlet and went for a run along the Embankment. ‘I weigh the same at forty-five as I did at twenty,’ he was proud of boasting. He was a genuine Cockney, a working-class lad from Bow. There was a rumour he was part of the notorious Richardson crime family. He never denied it, though Allie suspected it was more wishful thinking than fact. Though he did have the same sadistic impulses the gangsters were notorious for.
She walked in, shrugging out of her coat and throwing it over a spare chair. Before she could get a word out, he held up a hand. ‘Before you get stuck in,’ he said, ‘I know chapter and verse what you’re going to sound off about. You’re going to bleat about me having your copy rewritten. You’re going to whine about sensationalism instead of sensitivity. And you’re going to whinge about me handing the rewrite to Owen Prosser because he is something that rhymes with his surname.’ He spread his hands and smiled. It made him look like a bad-tempered beaver.
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘I turned in a great story.’
He curled his lip. ‘A great story for a different paper. Allie, you know perfectly well what we do here. We do sensationalism. We do lowest common denominator. We stir the shit.’
‘We didn’t used to. We used to do journalism.’
He bit his lip. ‘Allie. I fought for you.’ He gestured upwards with his thumb. ‘The boss wanted to keep one of the lads. But I said no. I said, “Allie Burns is one of the best journalists I’ve ever worked with.” And I meant it. You get across doorsteps where other hacks get the door slammed in their face. You get people to talk that act like they’ve taken a vow of silence. But you gotta start dancing to Ace Lockhart’s beat.’
‘Like a puppet on a string? What if I don’t want to?’
He sighed. ‘What else are you going to do? Where else are you going to go? If you burn your boats here, you’ll struggle, girl.’ Hearing him echo her own concerns didn’t help. ‘I do my best to cover your back, because when it counts, when it comes down to the wire, you’re the best. Your Lockerbie stuff? You’d have brought tears to a glass eye. You find stories in Manchester that make London give a fuck, and that’s not nothing. But I can’t have your back forever. That story you filed last week? You know as well as I do that the Globe line isn’t a sob story about dying junkies and whores who can’t get treatment for their self-inflicted disease.’ He shook his head.
