Document Z (16 page)

‘I'm an advanced agent. This means I live my part. I am engaged in it around the clock. Nothing by way of distance between this life and my own.'

Yeend placed the letter on his desk. He asked Bialoguski which service he worked for.

‘Can I not speak to the prime minister?'

‘I have the authority to help you.'

Bialoguski cleared his throat violently. ‘ASIO,' he said.

‘Oh,' said Yeend.

‘That is right.'

‘Who is the head of ASIO these days?'

‘You are testing. It is Colonel Charles Chambers Fowell Spry.'

‘Hmm.'

‘My handler's name is Michael Howley. I have no objection to you ringing them to confirm.'

‘Okay. Go on.'

‘The service and I are momentarily at odds.'

‘Loggerheads?'

‘In conflict of a kind.'

‘Concerning?'

‘Respect or the lack thereof.'

‘Respect.'

‘They don't understand the effects of their policies on the individual.'

‘On the advanced agent?'

‘Yes, on the man who must walk and talk and inhabit himself constantly.'

Yeend paused. ‘I'm not certain I fully understand.'

‘What I mean is there are policies that create enormous strain. For example, they refuse to answer hypothetical questions. Let's say I rent an apartment. Let's say I take time away from my employment to meet with left-wing individuals. Will I be reimbursed? There's no predicting! It is the unexamined life trying to operate in the modern and scientific world. How is an advanced agent supposed to proceed?'

Yeend leaned back in his chair.

Bialoguski went on. ‘I operate in the dark, entering into obligations, courting personal and financial embarrassment. There is no sympathy displayed by Security. They are dis-trusting. They are suspicious beyond need. They want their agents to be timid. They want them to follow the path of least resistance. Listen, I am in the orbit of those who would subvert this nation. I don't mean ragtag communists. I'm talking about outside influence. The menace. What we're obsessing about. People might sleep soundly in this country if they could believe that men such as myself are out there. Well placed and vigilant, keeping watch on the Russians. What I'm bringing to your attention should be embarrassingly elementary. Terms and conditions of employment. But it breeds larger questions. What is Security doing in this country? How professional and proficient can ASIO be when a prime asset reduces himself to begging in the office of the prime minister?'

Yeend reached for a pen.

Bialoguski straightened. ‘This is about money, but at the same time it isn't. It is about internalising a bureaucracy and the bitterness that provokes.'

‘I'm sympathetic.'

‘When I say I'm at odds with the organisation, in other words I've threatened to resign.'

‘Is that right?'

‘You'll pass on my concerns?'

‘I'm surprised to hear this. I'm startled that such a situation could arise.'

‘You're deputised. You can relay to the PM what you've been told.'

‘I could do that.'

‘I'm not here to create trouble. I'm seeking resolution in these affairs.'

‘I suspect I'm being drawn in.'

‘Let me assure you, it's a limited intrigue.'

Bialoguski reached forward, extending a hand. Yeend shook it. Bialoguski presented his business card—black print on white cardboard and a square hole at its centre where his name had been cut out.

They both stood. Bialoguski said, ‘If you need to, you can reach me on this number.'

‘Ask for?'

‘Ask for Jack. Tell the prime minister he can use the name Jack Baker in any discussions he has.'

The neighbourhood at evening with a dying lustre. He drove down Mugga Way. Homes here that were mansions. The time was right on dusk, Red Hill glooming. The houses sat on the upslope, dark hedges fortressing those longer established.

At 7 Lockyer Street, the porch light was on, making a starkness of the front step. He supposed this was Petrova who had answered the door.

‘Michael Bialoguski,' he said.

She wore a blue skirt and a grey knitted top, a thin apron over both. ‘I thought perhaps you were him,' she said. She took him to the lounge. ‘Volodya is finishing at the embassy,' she explained. ‘Will you have something? A drink?'

He thought the room austere. Furniture chipped and falling to bits. He accepted a glass of beer.

They moved to the kitchen where she was cooking. She was attractive, he thought, though not in the stunning way Petrov stressed in his darker moments, overcome by drink, guilt and effusion. They talked about his surgery, how business was, how doctors in Australia made their living. They discussed Marxism, whether or not Australia was supplying arms to the French in Indo-china. He realised he didn't really know where he stood with this woman, what Vladimir had told her, what kind of things she knew. She suggested that he was acquainted with Lydia Mokras, the young girl who came to the embassy, tall, light-haired and striking.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘That's right.'

Was she going to ask about his marriage? Luckily, Vladimir came waddling through the door, briefcase and cigarette in hand.

‘Doctor,' he said. ‘It's just us tonight.'

‘What happened to the Kislitsyns?' asked Evdokia.

‘Philip has gone to Melbourne. The Generalovs have demanded that Anna dine with them.'

They ate with the radio on. Potatoes and mushrooms. His helping was the size of a small planet. The radio played popular songs. Vladimir seemed to be enjoying himself, smoking cigarettes throughout the meal, his apparent duty to top up everyone's glass.

Evdokia wanted to discuss an explosion that had occurred, a couple's home in Armidale that had been attacked by a five-pound bomb.

‘Really?' said Bialoguski.

‘Oh, yes,' she replied. ‘Their bedroom wall was blown in and jagged pieces of glass were buried inches deep in their walls.' Evdokia wondered about the ordnance: gelignite and a twenty-foot fuse. Was this something the general public could gain access to and use?

‘I doubt it,' said the doctor. He changed the subject, saying he'd run into an old friend, an oboist, in the bar at the Hotel Canberra. A complete lie, and he marvelled at the ease with which he produced it, how simple it was to create an oboist from nothing but setting, a shared brandy and a glass of wine. At his story's conclusion, he dropped the name Pakhomov into the conversation, for no other reason than to see how it would run.

‘Pakhomov,' said Vladimir. ‘Doosia, tell Michael to steer clear of Ivan and Anna.'

‘I did not know they were friendly,' said Evdokia.

‘I wouldn't say friendly,' said Bialoguski. ‘I am the family doctor. The relationship is I treat them as patients.'

Vladimir questioned the rate he charged. ‘Whatever it is, it could easily be doubled. The embassy reimburses our medical expenses. Evdokia herself handles it.'

Bialoguski smiled. How many scams did the man want to run?

Talk of the embassy changed the mood. Vladimir began grumbling about the treatment they were getting. Evdokia threw more salt on her plate and said that the embassy was run by vicious dogs.

‘Generalova,' she spat. ‘This is her new portfolio.'

‘Obviously it's getting to you.'

‘I think it is Lifanov's influence in Moscow. We don't know where he is. What department. Whom he can badmouth us to.' The doctor was making a mental engraving of everything she said.

‘The burden is immense,' said Petrov.

His wife laughed then and tried to inject some humour. ‘Oh, it's alright. We are being badgered by jealous
mujiks
. They're toothless and not very creative. There have been worse occasions in our lives.'

Vladimir went to open a bottle of wine he'd been presented by the Russian Library in Sydney. He screwed the cork and held the bottle against his stomach, pulling. Bialoguski tried to pass but was forced to drink.

Dessert was a cake from the Highgate Café. Much later, the doctor drove home warily, consciously looking for policemen and trying not to crash the car.

In the morning, a phone call. He stumbled out of bed.

‘Yes?'

‘Jack Baker?'

‘And to whom is he speaking?'

But he knew already. It was Michael Howley, an edge to his voice. ‘This isn't a good time,' Bialoguski told him.

‘No?'

‘No.'

‘Stay by this extension, will you. Mr East is going to call.'

‘Who is Mr East?'

‘Colleague of mine.'

‘Mysterious.'

The line went dead. He put down the receiver and waited and the phone rang. The voice was still and heavy. ‘My name is East,' it said. ‘We haven't met but I'm a close follower of your case.'

The doctor foresaw what was to come. The man began with the Americans. He said that someone of Bialoguski's name and appearance had paid them a visit, offering to contract as a spy. Interesting. The Americans had notified the protocol office at External Affairs. This was how everyone in the foreign bureaucracy knew that Security had a highly embarrassing former agent on the loose. The senior leadership of the organisation wanted to break him into little bits.

Bialoguski jumped in. ‘No, no. I approached the Americans because I had resigned. You people. I told them I would work only with consent.'

‘With consent?'

‘That's right. Of the government. I am a citizen of this country.'

‘Bullshit.'

‘What's that?'

‘What you're saying.' The man went on. ‘We had a call last night from Geoffrey Yeend. On top of everything already. “Would you believe it, what Jack Baker's up to?” Colonel Spry nearly died.'

‘Dramatic,' said Bialoguski.

‘Spry says he is in charge of Security, not the prime minister.'

‘Yes, but who is in charge of Spry?'

‘Personal message for you. He is in charge. You're sacked.'

The doctor laughed. ‘Sacked. I've resigned already. Don't you recall? Maybe the system of memory employed by your bureaucracy is broken.'

‘That was you resigning us. This is us resigning you.'

‘Clever.'

‘M-letter,' said East. ‘Appended to the last sheet in your file.'

‘Remind me.'

‘Termination.'

‘Oh,' said the doctor. ‘Terminalia.'

Neither man spoke for a while. Bialoguski began to wonder how they'd known that he was at the hotel.

‘If this is the case,' he said, ‘you'll need to stop keeping tabs. What will I do without my shadow?'

East said nothing.

‘Do security know what they're throwing away?'

East said he thought they had a fairly good idea.

‘Wait,' said the doctor. ‘How irrevocable is this?'

‘I don't believe that particular word comes in degrees.'

Bialoguski put the phone down hard and sat on the bed in his pyjamas. His alarm clock was about to ring. He turned it off and collected his towel for the shower. He'd been looking forward to this shower. The bathroom was spectacular, huge mirrors like dishes on the walls.

He fumed as he soaped. Americans. You couldn't trust them. Bloody empire of bloody new suits. Insurance executives. Maybe they knew how to wear their watches and sport their haircuts but none of them gave the slightest thought as to why.

There was an electric dryer for women's hair. He got out of the shower and tried it on his skin.

He went to breakfast and smoked a cigarette, ate scrambled eggs, put milk in his Earl Grey tea. What happens to the secret life when it loses its confessor? He ate a pork sausage and pondered. He dabbed at breadcrumbs with a piece of bread. He looked at the sunlight burning the lawns.

Was he secret because of them, or was he secret because this was the practice he lived by? Could you choose a secret life, or did it have to be officially sanctioned? He drank fresh orange juice, two glasses, and it was good. He ate bacon, a rasher with a line of mustard, mulling over the answer in his mind.

Get Petrov to defect, he decided. That was the best and most meaningful course. Get Petrov to defect and threaten to shop the whole thing to the papers. Use the papers as the other. Use them as the secret church. He'd bring Security to their knees, have them ruefully begging for his return to the fold.

11

S
kies heating. Skies blue like an illustration, cloudless. September 1953. Generalov announced that his entire staff was entitled to a four-day holiday. They were even granted permission to leave Canberra, as long as they travelled in groups.

There was a scramble for the cars. The Kislitsyns booked DC 141, a black BMW sedan, and invited the Petrovs to Sydney. Evdokia asked Masha to fill the spare seat. On the Thursday morning, they drove past yellow paddocks, hills and dirt, kilometre upon kilometre of the same idea, fence lines, Hereford cattle, union after union of dusty sheep.

They stopped in Mittagong for pies and beer, and a few hours later Sydney appeared on the horizon, terrific buildings with a gravity that altered light. They checked into the Buckingham Hotel. Volodya seemed rushed, nervous to find everyone their room. Evdokia had the impression that he didn't want them here.

‘This is your city,' she said.

‘My city? Don't be absurd.'

‘You are anxious. Why?'

‘It's just the car. My arms are buzzing.' He held them out: a shaky grip on an imagined wheel. ‘Where should we eat?' he asked. ‘Where would you like to go?'

They stood outside the Buckingham on the street, stepping into the idea of the metropolis. Two years Evdokia had been in Canberra. She looked at Masha and Anna, both grinning uncontrollably.

They went in the direction of the restaurant. The men walked a distance in front, somewhat swallowed by the crowd. There were distant city rumblings, currents, noises heard for the moment but which your mind soon disappeared. The restaurant was plain but the meal good. They observed an unspoken rule: no talk of home. No derisive comparisons, no jibes against the capitalist west. They would be here for three more days, almost unburdened by who they were, and they could fall out of their situation for a moment, pretend that the holiday wasn't a precious, hourly disappearing jewel.