Document Z (23 page)

It was this message that Petrov recalled now, walking from the gardens to the chemist, buying a packet of aspirins, taking three. The sun had him feeling queasy. He started thinking about Beckett. Should he go on this visit? Maybe he would ask Beckett about his helpful friends. Would there really be any harm in asking? Couldn't he ask just to ask? If Moscow got word of things—though he couldn't see how they would—he could simply say he was exploiting Beckett for counterespionage information. Of course! He should have seen that all along. Wasn't it the genius of his position? That he could play at being as interested as he liked? It would be comforting, in any case, simply to know where Beckett lived.

Bialoguski drove them to the house after lunch. He was surprised at its size, an enormous place, two storeys with a veranda and balcony, and he felt suddenly that Beckett was a more important man than he'd given him credit for; perhaps the ophthalmologist's associates really were the ‘right people'.

Beckett met them at the car. ‘How are you chaps, alright?'

He was wearing a white shirt, shorts and sandals. They all shook hands. Bialoguski fished four bottles of Bell's Special from his Holden and made a display of giving them to Beckett. Petrov thought Beckett's foyer bigger than all the rooms in Lockyer Street combined. The house had a private library. They sat there and quickly drank beer to knock some of the heat out of themselves before switching to things harder.

Beckett talked keenly about sport. Petrov nodded along, not understanding the specifics but following each tale's gist. The man owned part of a racehorse with a syndicate. The syndicate had gone sailing down the coast to Merimbula last Christmas. Christmas off Merimbula wasn't quite the frozen affair that Christmas in Russia presumably was, no?

He laughed where he was supposed to. He accepted a gin and tonic. He accepted an English brand of cigarette. Bialoguski and Beckett chatted. Their various discussions seemed to end always with a friendly jibe against his country, its leadership, its struggle. They were inviting him to participate, he knew.

Eventually, Bialoguski said, ‘Halley, did you know that Vladimir has been given his final orders? He is to go home soon.'

Beckett looked across at Petrov. ‘How are you feeling about that, Vladimir, your tour coming to an end?'

His tour.

‘I'm still in contact with some friends, you know,' Beckett went on. ‘Very much so.'

Petrov was careful not to respond directly. ‘Let's have another of these gin and tonics,' he told them.

An hour passed before the question arose again. They'd talked music, they'd talked movies, they'd talked new surgeries that Beckett wanted to pioneer.

‘What do you think, Vladimir?' said Bialoguski. ‘Should Halley give his friends a call? It could be something best done in business hours.'

Beckett nodded. ‘Yes, that would likely be convenient for them.'

‘Let's wait,' said Petrov. ‘Let's keep drinking first.'

They filled his glass.

‘I suppose it's a serious thing, isn't it?' said Beckett. ‘It is a difficult step to take.'

‘Not so difficult,' snapped Bialoguski. ‘Possibly, the easiest thing.'

‘I mean the decision,' explained Beckett. ‘The step itself is simple, but the decision must be grim.'

‘Liberating, I'd say,' the doctor countered. ‘Quickly so.'

Petrov felt himself getting increasingly nervous as the men talked. The ice in the gin licked his lips and the fumes filled his nostrils. He found himself a cigarette and had to clamp his hands hard over the lighter. Bialoguski's voice seemed to be dominating the whole room.

He knew he was going to do it. He was going through with the phone call whatever happened. It's just so I know whether I have an out here, or no.

He waited for silence. ‘Maybe we will call your friends, Doctor Beckett.'

‘Do you mean now, Vladimir?'

‘Yes, why not.'

The man leaned forward in his chair. ‘There's one friend in particular who I think could help you. A Security chap. A good man.'

‘Yes, let's call him.'

Beckett nodded. He went to a bureau against the wall, lifted a handset to his ear and dialled a number. Petrov and Bialoguski sat watching.

‘Hello. I would like to speak to Mr Howley, please.'

They waited. Howley, Petrov thought. Not a name that rings a bell. He tried to picture the faces of the men from Melbourne, the followers, wondering if one of these was Mr Howley. Or was he somebody else on the borderlines of the familiar, the man across the room at any of the cafés he frequented, the man smoking in a hotel lounge, the man posing as a repairman, a council worker, anyone.

‘It's Halley Beckett. Listen, I have two friends here who want advice. One is a doctor friend of mine. Can you, quite unofficially of course, give me some advice as a gesture of our friendship? They want to get certain assurances of protection and security in connection with a serious step one of them is considering.'

They weren't able to hear the other voice on the line.

‘Yes,' said Beckett. ‘He is quite serious in his intention.' Beckett listened and then looked at Petrov directly, curling the handset from his mouth. ‘Do you want to see this Security chap officially?'

He didn't say yes, but he nodded.

‘Yes, he wants to meet a Security man officially. He will want credentials, and assurances as to safety, security, protection, etcetera. He wants you to understand that it is a most serious step he is considering taking.'

Beckett listened again. He said that the Security man was prepared to meet and asked Bialoguski, not Petrov, what time was best and where.

‘Ten tomorrow morning,' he told Howley. ‘Flat number nine, twenty-two Wolseley Road, Point Piper. That's right . . . Yes . . . Yes, I suppose there's no harm you knowing the doctor's name. It's Bialoguski. Yes, he has a phone number. What is your number, Michael? Yes, it's FM 3940.'

And the phone was cradled.

‘He says he will meet you there, Vladimir. And he will keep his knowledge of the appointment completely confidential.'

They drank on for another hour. Petrov knew they were trying to settle him. His arms were hot. He felt short of breath. He ran water over his face in the bathroom. He believed it but still it was somewhat unbelievable, what he'd just done. The clock reached six and he didn't feel at all like eating. He asked for beer. He said he was tired of these sticky drinks and wanted something plain.

Bialoguski told him to relax. Said he'd find it easy tomorrow morning, told him he'd be there to be sure it went alright.

Manna from heaven. Howley rang B2 and informed him of the news. B2's voice betrayed his excitement. They read the protocol sheet together—insurance, Howley supposed, and a guarantee they were on the same page.

Colonel Spry was notified. Cabin 12 was put into immediate effect. The two fresh safe houses Howley had scouted went on the activation list. All calls were to be logged and minifon spools checked and archived.

The night outside was a collapsing wall of heat. Howley armed his briefcase with a draft request for political asylum. He and B2 had small debates about questions they'd been dreaming of for years. Should he wear a minifon to the meeting? No; tell Bialoguski to wear his instead. Should he take cash with him? No; make the offer; tell Petrov the final amount depends on what he can produce.

Howley rehearsed what he might say. He pictured himself photographed by the surveillance team that he was considering bringing along to surround the flat.

Beckett called again. Petrov and Bialoguski had just now left for the doctor's flat.

‘Describe the mood,' said Howley.

Beckett told him Petrov was a certainty. He was anxious, breathing with a brick on his lungs and in a cold sweat. He'd been drinking heavily. On his way out he'd told Beckett, ‘They could easily shoot me,' then delivered a bullet to his temple by means of an imaginary gun.

Howley disconnected and gave a moment's thought to rami-fications. If Petrov was genuine, they were talking the world stage. An international shockwave heading from the west to beyond. A political and intelligence victory of as yet undefined proportions.

Bialoguski rang from somewhere, his voice hushed and somehow out of Petrov's earshot, saying the recorder would be available for collection that night from the boot of his car.

Howley went to Cliveden and stood in the darkness. The underground garage had the smell of metal, concrete and oil. He pocketed the wire from Bialoguski's recorder.

The next morning, John Lynd and Leo Carter came to Howley's office. He briefed them and they drove three cars to Wolseley Road. The morning was calm and the sky open, and the men took position around the building, watching a group of women and children walking to the bus stop at the end of the street.

They were in place when the taxi arrived at 9.46 a.m. Petrov appeared from the underground garage, walking for the cab while still getting into his coat. The car drove south. Lynd and Carter stayed on guard while Howley went upstairs.

‘What's he doing?'

Bialoguski had opened the door still buttoning his shirt. ‘Embassy business,' he said.

‘How's that?'

‘I don't know. Something about obtaining Italian visas for couriers. I told him you were an important man. Not someone to disappoint.'

‘Is he coming back?'

‘Twelve o'clock, he said.'

They waited outside. An hour passed. Howley sent Lynd in one of the cars to the Italian consulate. A minute later, Bialo-guski came down.

‘He's called. He says it's unlikely he'll be back in time to meet. He has a plane booked to return to Canberra at three. He is not sure whether there will be time before then.'

Howley looked up and down the street. ‘He still wants to meet?'

‘I think so.'

For no reason they could name, they waited another ten minutes, staring up at Cliveden. Then every Security officer in the city went looking for Petrov, putting a watch on Pakhomov and visiting pubs one by one. Where was he? Howley made phone calls from the office, keeping B2 up with the news.

At 2.53 p.m., FM 3940 called. Bialoguski's voice said that Petrov would be back in Sydney on Friday, could he meet with Mr Howley then?

Howley paused. Someone was speaking Russian in the background.

‘Is that Petrov who's next to you?'

‘Yes. That's right.'

‘Will you ask him something? Will you ask him whether he is treating this matter seriously?'

Further background conversation, rapid and intense. Bialo-guski said, ‘Mr Petrov just told me he is quite serious.'

‘Okay.'

‘He wants to meet you Friday. Here, at this flat.'

‘Alright. Tell him I will meet him then.'

Hours later, Leo Carter rang from Mascot. He'd followed Bialoguski's car to the aerodrome, where he'd seen Petrov hastily board ANA flight 53 to Canberra at 6.10 p.m. Seat 12, according to the waybill.

‘How did he look?' asked Howley.

‘Fast.'

Bialoguski collected Petrov from the airport the following Friday. ‘Beckett says that Mr Howley worries about you,' the doctor told him. ‘He is concerned that you might be harmed.'

Petrov tried to suppress a nervous laugh. When they arrived at Cliveden, Bialoguski asked him if they should call Security straightaway.

‘Is there any scotch?' he said.

He turned off the lights in the lounge room and paced there for a time. He kept thinking of the things that could go wrong. He tried to sit. He walked from one side of the room to the other, realised his face was sticky with sweat.

It was they who had betrayed him. It was they who had done the betraying and the consequences were theirs to bear.

‘Alright,' he said. ‘Let's ring him.'

Fifteen quiet minutes elapsed before a dark car pulled up in Wolseley Road. It sat silently before a man in an overcoat got out.

Bialoguski opened the door. The man was standing with a briefcase. He said his name was Michael Howley. He shook Bialoguski's hand, then Petrov's. Petrov attempted a greeting. What came out was a low cough.

They sat looking at one another. Bialoguski turned on the radio. They listened to the racing results from Flemington. Howley—if that was his true name—opened a leather pouch on his knee. ‘Well,' he said. ‘Should we establish something?'

Petrov had decided the appearance was perfect. The face, the blandness. Exactly the image of how the enemy Security man should be. He felt himself wanting to trust Howley already.

‘Let's establish a certain fact,' Howley said. ‘You want to see me officially. You have asked to see me. You are doing this voluntarily.'

There was no harm now. Just sitting with this man in this room had put him well past the point.

‘That's right,' Petrov said. ‘An official meeting. The reason is in connection with my staying in Australia.'

The man passed him the pouch. It was an identity document. ‘I am authorised,' he said. ‘I am empowered by the Commonwealth to deal with these matters.'

‘Alright.'

‘I think you should say it. It's best that you say it directly.'

Petrov kept hold of the pouch. He looked at Bialoguski and then back at the man. ‘I want to stay in Australia. Can you tell me, what would be your country's position?'

The man gave a nod. ‘I am authorised to offer you political asylum.'

‘Asylum?' He laughed nervously again. A thing that just came out.

‘That's right,' Howley said. ‘Physical protection. A new identity. A sum of money to get you started.'

‘How much money?' interrupted Bialoguski.

‘No,' said Petrov. ‘How much protection?'

Howley told him arrangements were in place. Safe locations prepared, trusted men who could be relied upon, deliberate men armed with guns and experience. Protection for as long as was needed. Years if that was the case. If he asked for asylum he would have it. He would be provided with money to start himself in business. To purchase for himself a house and a car. He and his wife . . . presumably his wife was seeking asylum as well?