Agent of Death (18 page)

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, Comrade General Secretary. I understand.’

‘It’s good that you do,’ he said, and relaxed back into his chair. ‘So now tell me all that you know. We’ve already questioned everyone else that’s been near you, but I want to hear it from you.’

So I wrung my memory dry. He was our ally after all. Nobody was fighting the Germans harder than his Red Army and I’d been sent into his country to help him. So I said what I knew, and the lackeys scribbled shorthand, and Stalin listened and nodded and asked a lot of questions. And that was disturbing, because as clever as he was, a little of his own thoughts slipped across to me unintended, or perhaps he didn’t care what I learned, and what I learned was frightening.

Thus, when I said I believed the survivors of Ulvid had been shipped east, to keep Mem Tav secret, he just shrugged. And when I added that so many of his troops must now know about Mem Tav that it couldn’t be kept secret, he grinned and gave me the sort of look that you give a child that doesn’t know what adults do.

‘Huh!’ he said. Just that single sound, and I got another jolt of fright because I realized that anyone who knew about Mem Tav was in deep danger of being rubbed out, including me.

But then his manner changed entirely.‘So,’ he said, and grinned, ‘let’s have some food and drink. Proper drink!’ And the waiters were in at the double, with cakes, bread and sausage, caviar and blinis and sour cream and salmon, and Russian champagne and vodka. I didn’t have much appetite by then, but he did, and a good deal of drink went down his throat, and even the lackeys and the guards were allowed a few glasses. Then he clapped his hands and beckoned to one of the lackeys, ‘Give,’ he said, ‘Give it here!’

The man stepped forward and produced a revolver from a briefcase. It was a seven-chamber Nagant, old and worn, and a box of cartridges to go with it. The gun looked just like the one I’d played with at the airport in Ukraine. It looked like it because it was that very one. I remembered its knocks and scratches. I stared, and Stalin roared with laughter as he saw my expression.

‘We’ve heard all about you, Moscow boy,’ he said, ‘so go on! Show us how you did it!’ He was red-faced by then, and grinning and sweating about the brow. I guess it would have been the same with Caligula, Genghis Khan, or Henry VIII, who I’m sure were all terribly nice chaps when they were merry, and Uncle Joe was merry as can be. So I bowed in my chair and reached for the revolver, and the goons behind me stamped forward and cocked their guns and Stalin laughed. Then he waved them back, and yelled out, ‘Bring them all in! Bring the others! Let’s have a show!’

So we did have a show. About twenty close-favoured persons were brought in, bobbing and gurning, and Stalin himself made them all stand behind his desk, and put me in front, just as I’d stood in that Ukraine airport guardroom which Stalin obviously knew all about. The only difference was that here, with a revolver and live ammunition in my hands, no less than four NKVD soldiers held their submachine guns ready and aimed at me, in case I pointed the Nagant in the wrong direction.

So I gave them the same show with the same result, which once again was aided enormously by the vast quantity of vodka that the audience was swallowing. When I completed the act by blowing a hole in the ceiling there was a huge roar of applause, and everyone rushed out from behind the desk, led by Stalin, and I became one of the few Englishmen ever to have been embraced by him, and kissed on both cheeks. His moustache stank of tobacco, but I didn’t complain; he was in the best possible mood because he’d guessed the trick.

‘I see how you did it, Moscow boy,’ he said, grabbing the pistol, ‘See! See!’ he cried to his gang of admirers, and worked the pistol to show them what I’d done. Actually, he fumbled so much with his awkward left hand that they couldn’t really see anything. But he’d got it right. I’ll give him that. He’d seen what nobody else had seen – and still couldn’t see, not from his demonstration. But of course, they didn’t let on.

‘Ahhhhhh!’ they said, and nodded their heads at the Boss’s cleverness.

‘But still it’s a good trick,’ he said, and twisted my nose with his fingers, painfully hard. ‘So now ask me for a favour, Moscow boy,’ he said, ‘because I like you!’

What I wanted to say was, ‘Put me on a plane for London right now this minute.’ But I didn’t. I didn’t dare seem eager to go. Anyway there was something else that I wanted.

‘Comrade General Secretary,’ I said, ‘do you know about Colonel Ulitzky?’

‘Ulitzky?’ said Stalin.

‘Colonel Georgy Jefim Ulitzky, 6
th
Guards Motorized Rifles,’ prompted a lackey.

‘Ah!’ said Stalin. ‘The man who wore the German flying suits.’

‘And died in them,’ I said, ‘and I ask in his name, Comrade General Secretary, that Colonel Ulitzky be honoured and recognized.’

‘Granted!’ said Stalin, turning to the lackey. ‘Make him a Hero of the Soviet Union, and also a Cavalier of the Order of the Red Banner with full pension to dependents.’

‘Yes, Comrade General Secretary!’

But Stalin wasn’t done. He put an arm round me and led me to the bottles and glasses on his desk, and he took a few too many – quite a few – and eventually said something he never intended. He said it because he drank too much, and he drank too much because he was pleased with himself for seeing through my sleight of hand, which is absolutely ludicrous when you think of what he had to worry about: the greatest battles in history, huge industries straining to deliver, and domestic politics of ferocious, animal savagery. All that, yet he was delighted he’d worked out a bloody conjuring trick.

I leave it to others to analyse the psychology – psychiatry – involved, but that’s what happened and I think it saved my life, because if he hadn’t taken a shine to me, then what with his dire need to keep Mem Tav secret, and what with him being paranoid suspicious of the British and Americans, I suspect he’d have made sure that I didn’t take home anything I’d learned about Mem Tav. I’d have had one of those unfortunate accidents that he’d mentioned. Perhaps my car would have gone off the road on the way to the airfield? Who knows? But as it was:

‘You’ll go home tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Your people want you back, and you’ve done all you can against Svart.’ Then he blabbed. ‘You English,’ he mumbled, ‘you’re wrong about Svart. Your Bletchley people are listening behind the wrong door. Svart made me an offer, but I said
shove
it
up
your
arse
!’ Stalin laughed. ‘He offered Mem Tav to me, and I said no.’

CHAPTER 21

The
Savoy
Grill,

Savoy
Hotel
,
The
Strand
,
London.

Tuesday
30 May
,
20
.
45
hours.

‘Darling Margaret, on most days you are merely delectable, but tonight you are ravishing!’ Noel Coward took her hand, kissed it, then smiled at me. ‘And who is this tremendously fortunate young gentleman?’ He was the most immaculately turned out man I have ever met in my life and, unlike most of the diners, he was in evening dress, with a white silk scarf casually draped over his shoulders. Also he smelt of perfume, which on him seemed right, and he had a train of acolytes behind him, mainly young men, who purred at every word he uttered, which isn’t surprising because he really was every bit as charming and witty as everyone said. He was polite too, and thoughtful, because he duly presented every one of his attendants to Lady Margaret and praised their talents:
this
one was a dancer,
that
one was a mezzo-soprano, and they were all ‘terribly, terribly good, darling!’

She gave her best smile to them all, then wafted a hand towards me.

‘Noel, may I introduce Wing Commander David Landau,’ she said, and became slightly serious. ‘You’ll understand I can’t give details, but he is a rather distinguished officer.’

‘Well done, old chap,’ said Coward, and shook my hand, then stared at my uniform tunic and frowned. ‘You’ve lost a ribbon, dear boy. Hope it wasn’t something too precious?’ He’d spotted the space where the Military Cross had been. I’d picked the stitches and pulled it off during the zig-zag flights across Europe, coming back from Moscow to RAF Woodbridge. I wore it in Russia because it was part of the mission, but I couldn’t wear it – not
really
wear it – in front of the other chaps in my squadron. It was only a bit of ribbon, white-mauve-white, but I couldn’t pretend I’d won the Military Cross, not when I hadn’t earned it. So I insisted on giving the ribbon back to the wingco before I left Woodbridge. I actually had to make a fuss about that – quite a bit in fact – and there was some shouting and stamping from impatient people who wanted me into a car and away. But I wouldn’t go until I’d seen the wingco, and handed over the ribbon and saluted him.

I kept the tunic though, because after that they really did rush me off the airfield and away to London too fast for me to change it. Anyway, they’d promoted me and the three full cuff rings made sense. They took me to Whitehall and a high-level debrief with MI5, MI6, and Bletchley, none of whom liked any of the others, not one little bit, and the rivalry between them was something to see. But I was pumped dry. Again. Just as I was by Stalin but nowhere near as frightening. It was funny by comparison, and anyway I was so tired that I didn’t pay proper attention to everything that was said, including my part in tracking down a sub with a Mem Tav weapon on board.             

But they were fascinated about Stalin’s hint that he’d been approached by Svart, and furious that Stalin had got hold of the only man known to have survived exposure to Mem Tav: the Arado pilot
Obersturmführer
Grauber.  Our beloved spooks thought Grauber’s survival proved that Svart had developed an antidote to Mem Tav,  and they wanted the antidote for themselves, just as they wanted Mem Tav.

But, in the Savoy, in answer to Noel Coward’s question about the missing medal ribbon, I was awake enough to make up some excuse, and he nodded sympathetically, and made a few very friendly and very funny remarks to me, which made me laugh. Then he turned to Margaret, kissed her hand again, said goodbye, and made a slow progression across the room on his way out with genuflection and adoration on every side, and many eyes anxious to be blessed with his recognition. So there were sighs when finally he turned and, of all those in the room, he waved only to Lady Margaret; then he smiled and blew a kiss.

‘He likes you,’ she said, and waved back.

‘He’s a nice chap,’ I said.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I mean he
really
likes you. The kiss was for you.’

‘Oh,’ I said, and Noel Coward went out, and the room went back to normal.

The Savoy Grill was full. It was the best and most famous restaurant in London, and it felt like a million miles from the war outside. Just to sit there at one of the round white-clothed tables, in an immaculate art deco setting, made you feel like a film star, or a cabinet minister, or an air marshal, and especially so if you were sitting facing Margaret Comings who wore a white silk-jersey gown with fortuny pleats, her blonde hair swirled up into clusters of jewels so that her neck seemed to go on for ever.

She was very lovely, and in the best possible mood, having made a triumphal entrance before a packed audience of London’s finest. When we came in, everyone looked as the head waiter greeted her like royalty, and was so graciously condescending as to smile, even upon my miserable self, from the height of his massive dignity.

‘Lady Margaret’s table!’ he cried, and snapped his fingers such that juniors sprang forward.

‘Lady Margaret,’ they said to her.

‘Sir,’ they said to me.

It was funny really. Just like the Kremlin. We were in a privileged wonderland where everything was lush and plentiful. So I’m afraid I rather spoilt the evening by wondering what the rest of the rationing-cursed nation might think of the Savoy.

The meal was punctuated by people coming over to greet Lady Margaret, and it wasn’t just her. There was a steady traffic between the tables, and many quiet conversations, because the Savoy Grill was as much a salon as a restaurant, and people were there to be seen, and even to do business: political, commercial, academic, theatrical, you name it. So, halfway through our meal, a chap in a well-cut pinstriped suit came over and spoke to her. He was in his sixties, thin on top, and had a long, miserable face and a cultivated, Edinburgh-Scots accent.

‘Lady Margaret,’ he said, and offered his hand, which she took and gripped and let go. No kisses this time. But they both smiled.

‘John,’ she said, ‘can I introduce Wing Commander Landau?’ We shook hands and he nodded.

‘Ah! Wing Commander Landau,’ he said, and I got the strong impression that he knew a lot about me. But he said nothing and just shook my hand briefly, gave a thin smile, and turned back to her.

‘And how is your husband, Sir Jack?’ he said.

‘Very well,’ she said, ‘and much committed to his work.’

‘In Manchester?’

‘As you know,’ she said, and they nodded, sharing some confidence that was way beyond me. I didn’t know Uncle Jack was doing war work but it looked as if he was, and something special too.

‘Do give him my regards,’ said the man in the pinstripes. ‘And now I must not keep you.’ He gave the vinegar smile again, and went back to a table full of others dressed like him. He was the top man though, because they all half stood, scraping their chairs back, when he re-joined them.

‘Who was that?’ I said.

‘John Anderson,’ she said, ‘Chancellor of the Exchequer.’

‘The one who introduced the Anderson shelter?’

‘Yes. He was head of ARP under Neville Chamberlain.’

‘And now he takes ten-bob-in-the pound income tax,’ I said. ‘That’s the basic rate. Fifty percent!’ She just shrugged at that. She was lavishly funded by Uncle Jack and had not the slightest interest in tax. So I grinned and looked round the room. ‘I wonder what the working class thinks of this?’ I said. ‘The people who live on bread and marge, with Spam on Sundays if they’re lucky.’ She shrugged again. ‘I know this dinner is on Bletchley,’ I said, and I looked particularly at the bottle of Nuits St George 1929, ‘but what will it cost?’

‘Five shillings each,’ she said, quickly. ‘Restaurant food is off-ration, and the Savoy is doing its bit, with a five-shilling maximum for three courses.’

I laughed. ‘Do you know what the average wage is?’ She just frowned. ‘About three hundred and fifty a year,’ I said. ‘After tax, the average married man gets about twelve shillings and ten pence a day to spend.’ I spread my hands in emphasis. ‘So he’s not going to spend ten bob on a meal in here with his wife. And that’s not including the wine.’

She didn’t like that. Not at all. I should have read the signs but I didn’t. It was always like that with her and me, and I was always sorry afterwards. On the other hand, she was always on a hair-trigger and it didn’t take much to start an argument. She couldn’t abide any sort of contradiction or opposition, or even excursions into subjects that she didn’t like. So she turned nasty, and snapped at me. I snapped right back.

‘What do you read,’ she said, ‘
The Daily Worker
?’

‘No.
The Telegraph
.’

‘Is that the
Jewish Telegraph
? It’d be good for people like you.’

‘You should know. You married one.’

The sharpest stabs come from those who know you best. I had indeed been brought up to count the pennies: that’s Jewish. And she’d married a man who counted the pennies so carefully that he ended up rich – very rich indeed. So here she was dining at the Savoy even if she didn’t love her rich husband.

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘I don’t think we’ll bother with pudding. It might be too expensive.’ She stood up and nodded at a waiter who bowed in reply. The bill would go to her account and nothing so vulgar as money was even mentioned.

We talked a bit in the taxi.

‘You’ll go down on the Cornishman express, from Paddington,’ she said, ‘tomorrow morning at ten. Lympstone will send transport to pick you up at Exeter station and they’ll provide all necessary kit.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, and attempted to make up for spoiling the evening. ‘It’s jolly decent of you to put me up.’

‘Where else would you go? You haven’t got a club, or family … oh …’ she stopped, realizing what she’d said, and she softened a bit.

‘Oh, never mind,’ I said. ‘So what are you going to do about Svart approaching the Russians?’

‘We’re already doing it. We’re cracking Russian intercepts – old ones – to see what we can find. We just never looked that way before.’ I left it at that. She’d not been at the debrief, but others had, hard-faced experts, and everything I’d seen or heard in Russia and Ukraine had been picked over at exhaustive length and I was very tired, and didn’t want to go over it again. Meanwhile, nobody knew what Svart had wanted from Stalin and why Stalin had said no to Mem Tav.

Then I dozed off. I’d not had much sleep for days because you don’t sleep when passing from one to another of three different transport aircraft that don’t have one decent passenger seat between them, and no heating either. So even a London cab felt warm and comfortable; I woke up only when we stopped, and I got out as Margaret was paying the cabbie. The only money I had was the wingco’s half-crown, but she’d have paid anyway. She was like that.

We’d arrived at Waverly Mansions – a late thirties, twelve-storey, concrete and steel apartment block – agonizingly expensive, exquisitely smart, and widely believed to be bomb-proof. Knowing what a Grand Slam would do to concrete I didn’t believe that, but the block was unscathed despite the blitz so perhaps it was lucky.

Margaret had a top-floor penthouse with big windows and no sticky tape to stop the glass fragmenting in case of blast. She thought tape spoilt the view over the Thames and the Houses of Parliament, which was wonderful even in the dark. At least it was if you opened the windows and went out on to the terrace. I knew because I’d been there before. But you could see a bit of the river, even from inside, because there were no blackout blinds either. Perhaps the wardens were getting lax? Or perhaps she’d paid them off? I wouldn’t have put it past her.

‘Want a drink?’ she said, and opened a cabinet full of lights and mirrors and all the booze that wasn’t supposed to be available. The flat was what you’d expect: beautifully furnished, large and lavish, and there was even a three-room flat-letter for servants. But there weren’t any of these. They all made more money on war work these days, so you couldn’t get them. I wondered how she managed, because if there was one thing that Margaret Comings did not do – not ever and don’t even imagine it – was any sort of housework.

‘I’ll have a whiskey,’ I said, ‘whatever you’ve got and a good bit of water.’

‘Look,’ she said, as she poured the drink, ‘you’ve really got to do your bit about that sub.’

‘What sub?’ I said, and she frowned.

‘The one with the Mem Tav doodlebug. We want you to get a signal sent out from Punno Island. A signal in Svart’s own code, from his own transmitters, and his own operators. Something that will make the sub reply, so we can find it by triangulation. If we don’t find it, it’ll kill millions of people. You do know that don’t you?’ I think I was too dozy to say much but we agreed a few details, then she passed me the drink and went to one of the bedroom doors; she stopped with her hand on the door handle and looked back at me. There was a light angled to shine a pool of brightness where she stood, and it was just like her to pause there, because in her long white gown she was Sloane Square, Broadway, and Paris, all in one slim body. Vogue Magazine couldn’t match her for glamour, nor any pin-up for sex appeal, and I just sat and gaped.