Russian Roulette (2 page)

‘No, not yet … I'm enjoying myself. Get me another drink, will you?'

Elizabeth Treasure spoke with the imperiousness of a beauty who is accustomed to having men trample one another to death in the rush to obey her every whim.

Simon meekly took her empty glass and began weaving across the cabin to the makeshift bar. His mind was churning with problems, all slightly awash in duty-free drink. Mission ‘Tool Steel', as he had come to think of it, formed the backcloth of his worries but, at the moment, ways and means of overcoming Liz's stubborn resistance to his dishonourable intentions were at the forefront of his mind.

She was easily the most attractive woman on the ship, in spite of some close competition from some Swedish and Finnish girls. A chic young lady of about twenty-six, she was wonderfully dressed and exquisitely made-up. She had a figure that made Simon ache every time he looked at it. Built for conquest, her petulance and moodiness were a challenge to the amateur secret agent. He had found out very little about her in the four days since leaving Tilbury for Leningrad, except that she ran an exclusive boutique in Chelsea, along with a partner, presumably another young socialite.

Her unshakeable resistance to seduction was plaguing Simon.

He had always thought himself a pretty fast worker when it came to the love game; he had no particular pride about this – results just showed it to be a fact. Other chaps were good at golf or poker – he was good at seduction. It irked him to admit that, after four nights aboard the
Yuri Dolgorukiy
, he could get no further than some fairly advanced necking with the delectable Mrs Treasure.

As he squirmed between the last pair of shoulders in the small cabin, to arrive at the ‘bar', he muttered ‘It's tonight or bust!' to himself.

He rested his empty glasses on the bedside locker that was doing service as a bar.

‘What will it be, old chap? Vodka and coke – vodka and gin – or vodka and vodka. Haw, haw, haw!'

Simon peered down at the flushed face of their courier, Gilbert Bynge, who was acting as barman in the intervals between nuzzling the neck of a very young and very pretty Swedish blonde.

A shambles of bottles stood on the locker and surrounding floor, most of them empty. The courier had been pitching the finished ones with carefree abandon and, so far, fortunate accuracy, through the open porthole behind him. He was now getting tipsy and it was only a matter of time before he exploded one in a shower of glass over the guests. Simon studied the remaining drinks.

‘A straight vodka and one with coke … not too much coke, I'm trying to crank her up tonight.'

Gilbert Bynge leered at him and splashed vodka into the used glasses, keeping a firm grip on the blonde's waist with the other arm.

‘How's the campaign going, old boy … any joy yet?'

They had discussed the problem earlier that day over beer, Gilbert being the only other man on the Trans-Europa tour who was within a decade of Simon's age.

‘Not a touch yet – I'll get these drinks down and then slope off to the boat deck with her – she's a hard case.' He gathered up the glasses and set off across the cabin, leaving Gilbert to add to the line of empty bottles now floating every nautical mile across the Gulf of Bothnia.

Their overpowering hostess had thankfully not returned to Elizabeth's side, but her place had been taken by a short, rotund man with a bald head. He was gesticulating with the enthusiasm of an Arab bazaar keeper, his pink baby face gleaming with perspiration.

‘Vodka and coke – that OK, Liz?'

The brunette took it with the air of someone accustomed only to the best champagne, and stitched her smile on again as she turned back to listen to Monsieur Fragonard. He appeared to be lecturing on the rival merits of Versailles and the Louvre.

Simon stood in the steaming fug, sipping his drink impatiently.

The short chappie was a Swiss merchant, voluble and boring, who latched himself on to anyone who would suffer him at any time of the day.

I'm going to draw another blank tonight if I don't get her out of this place soon
, he fretted, as Fragonard jabbered on to Elizabeth.

He was distracted by some commotion in another corner, where it appeared that the Assistant Purser had fallen in a drunken stupor and shattered his head against the door.
Managing to fall full-length in this crush is an achievement in itself
, thought Simon dispassionately. The Chief Purser dragged his colleague out into the companionway and the other occupants expanded to take up the space. Almost all the twenty members of the Trans-Europa tour were there, with the exception of a few of the most senile old ladies. A couple of Soviet crewmen and some hangers-on like Gilbert's girlfriend made up the rest. Apart from Liz and the courier, not one of the tourists was under forty, and, more than once, Simon had the impression that he had joined an old folks' outing rather than an expensive continental holiday tour. Still, at the short notice that Kramer had given him, he was lucky to get into anything going Russia-wards – and Liz was a more than adequate compensation.

Jules Honore Fragonard was still gabbling away and Simon failed to catch Liz's beautiful eye. He was about to resign himself to yet another night without an attempt on her virtue, when Gilbert Bynge created a diversion by knocking the bar over.

The courier blithely stepped over the wreckage of bottles, leading his blonde by the hand.

‘Booze all gone, folks!' he announced in his phoney Oxford accent. ‘Let's all go to the main lounge –there's a dance on and the bar will be open for another half-hour.'

His tall, thin form loped away, the girl skipping behind him. Infected by his gaiety, the passengers, though semi-senile in Simon's view, trooped out after him in a noisy, tiddly throng.

Thankfully, the fat little Swiss man was caught up in the exodus and Simon managed to split Elizabeth away from him.

‘Come on, let's get some air,' he suggested, ‘Up on the boat deck for a few minutes – then we can go down to the Twist session, if you fancy it.'

Rashly, he slipped his arm around her waist.

If he wanted a response, he got it. She neatly turned out of his grasp and tucked her evening bag beneath her arm with a gesture of finality.

‘This cabin has given me a headache. I'm going to turn in, Simon. Don't bother to see me down; go up in the fresh air – you look as if you need it!'

With this acid parting shot, she set off briskly for the stairs. Simon started to follow her, then subsided against the doorpost with a sigh. ‘Bloody women!' he muttered with feeling. He wandered out to the deck and stared down at the racing bow wave until it made his stomach feel queasy. He
had
had a lot to drink – that vodka muck of Gilbert's was catching up with him.

‘Bloody women! ' he said again and started off somewhat unsteadily for the other bar, which was at the after end of the promenade deck. It was almost empty, most passengers being either in their bunks or in the main lounge. Simon draped himself over one of the high stools as the urbane Russian barman, resplendent in most un-Marxist dinner jacket, came to serve him.

‘I'll have a Three Horses, George … no more spirits for me tonight.'

Crouched over the bottle of Dutch lager – several bottles, in fact – he moped about his troubles. The taste of amorous defeat lay bitter in his mouth, but he had long-term worries as well.

‘Should never have put that damn silly advert in the paper,' he growled thickly into his fourth glass of Three Horses.

The advertisement was the root of all his troubles.

Five weeks before, he had added to his rapidly mounting overdraft by inserting a paragraph in the ‘Agony' columns of the
Times
and
Telegraph
.

It read
YOUNG EX-OFFICER SEEKS ANY UNUSUAL BUT HIGHLY REMUNERATIVE SERVICE. FLUENT GERMAN AND RUSSIAN. PREFER FOREIGN ASSIGNMENT, BUT ANYTHING CONSIDERED
.

‘“Anything considered!”,' he thought bitterly.

Of the seven replies, he had to go and pick the one that now seemed bound to get him either shot or imprisoned for life. The fact that it was the most highly paid by at least tenfold was of little consolation if he would not be around to collect.

His original idea was born out of boredom, poverty and frustration at civilian life. His eight-year commission in the regular army had left him ill-equipped for any chair-borne career. Active service in Cyprus and Malaya in an infantry battalion, but no university degree or technical qualifications, had left him high and dry when he was demobbed. A bachelor and an orphan, he had lived over-extravagantly on his gratuity for nearly two years. He failed at a variety of offbeat jobs and ended up as a second-hand car salesman. If he'd had the know-how, he might have turned to crime, as long as it was of the sophisticated ‘Gentleman Jim' sort, but he had no idea where to begin.

The advertisement was the last hope. He was really looking for a military job – he rather fancied a major's rank in one of the English-officered mercenary armies that were springing up in a dozen emergent African states. But no one seemed to want another ‘Mad Mike' – six of his replies consisted of four offers of Russian translation work, a post as under-manager of a stud farm in Sussex and a proposal of marriage from a lady in Tonbridge.

The translation jobs, though quite well-paid, interested him not a bit. He had learned German as a boy, living with his widowed Army father in Cologne just after the war … the Russian came from a six-month intensive course in the Army. He had a natural flair for languages –
about the only natural ability I have, apart from womanising
, he reflected in melancholy.

The seventh, and only interesting reply, was a note, carrying no address. It stated shortly that if the advertiser would consider a small element of risk, the foreign travel could be coupled with remuneration in excess of a thousand pounds, all for only a few weeks involvement. The unsigned note gave a Mayfair telephone number which could be rung between six and eight any evening that week.

Simon had immediately dumped all the other replies in the bin and sat feverishly speculating on the offer until the hands of his watch crept around to six.

Drug smuggling
? His conscience kept bobbing up against that, though the sort of money mentioned was enough to stifle most of his finer feelings.
Espionage
? No, one hardly became a spy via an advert in the
Times
.

He was little the wiser after he had made the call.

A nasal American voice introduced himself as Harry Lee Kramer and proceeded to do all the talking. Simon's name, age and background were extracted in rapid-fire questioning.

‘Just want you to collect some little thing from Moscow – nothing illegal, nothing political, see … are you interested for three grand?' He skilfully blocked all Simon's questions. ‘Are you on, or not, huh?'

Simon said he was, and Kramer gave him some terse instructions, after promising to post a small advance payment for expenses. He was to get a Russian visa – took about ten days – then book a tourist trip on a round tour through Moscow. It was the start of the season and he would be able to find a vacancy easily, said Kramer.

Then they fixed up a meeting ten days or so ahead, which Simon suggested could be at the Happy Dragon.

The first pangs of doubt started at that meeting. In spite of the raised price, which in other circumstances would have sent him delirious with delight, he became progressively more apprehensive, during the day following the Happy Dragon episode.

But these regrets were nothing compared to his feelings at midnight that night.

Returning to his Bayswater serviced flatlet, he found it a shambles of overturned furniture, rifled drawers and torn cushions. That it was no ordinary burglary was only too obvious – an expensive camera, a wristwatch and a few pounds in cash were untouched.

In dismay, he sat down among the wreckage and slowly came to realize that he had just been ‘done over' by someone connected with ‘Operation Tool Steel'.

But
how
connected?

What was the common factor? … his visit to the Chinese restaurant or his visa application, which had been granted that very day?

It
must
have been the Kramer meeting – thousands of people get Russian visas without having their homes turned inside out! So who was interested in his association with Kramer? Could it even be Kramer or his agents, satisfying themselves that Simon was on the level? Or the Soviets – or MI5 – or the Gehlen
¹
or even the CIA?

In the long sleepless night, his favours wavered violently between the various factions. He thought of rivals to Kramer's organization, but kept returning to the Soviets as the most likely. Influenced perhaps by a literary diet of Fleming and Deighton, he came back every time to the KGB and even SMERSH, though he had a hazy knowledge of what they actually were.

Whoever it was, he wanted no part of it. At two that morning, he had tried to telephone Kramer's number to tell him that he was opting out, but there was no reply. All through the following day, the Mayfair number remained unanswered. It seemed that the Kramer bird had flown; even the collection of the sample was to be by someone else – the American had given him a Mansion House number to ring on the thirtieth of May – the day after the Trans-Europa trip arrived home.

The next week, until the departure of the tour, was purgatory for Simon Smith. The thought of dangers unknown obsessed him. He stayed in his flat, a virtual recluse, trying to decide whether or not to abandon the scheme.

For the first day or so, he was firmly decided to pack it in – keep the money Kramer had given him and hope that the Yank wouldn't turn up to claim it.

But as the week wore on and nothing alarming happened, his natural avarice asserted itself again. The middle of the week was marked by wild swings of indecision and the consumption of a lot of whisky. Then, as departure day approached, the swings of his mental pendulum gravitated to the side of ‘having a go at it'.