The Russia House (13 page)

‘ “I didn’t persuade him,” I say. “It was his idea. What are you trying to hang on me?”

‘ “There is no ownership of ideas,” he says. “You put it into his head. You are a clever fellow. Cunning work, I would say. Congratulations.”

‘Then instead of sneering at me he’s clutching on to my shoulders as if he’s drowning. I don’t know whether he’s ill or he’s lost his balance. I’ve got a nasty feeling he may want to be sick. I try to help him but I don’t know how. He’s hot as hell and sweating. His sweat’s dripping on to me. Hair’s all wet. These wild childish eyes. I’ll loosen his collar, I think. Then I get his voice, shoved right down my ear, lips and hot breath all at once. I can’t hear him at first, he’s too near. I back away but he comes with me.

‘ “I believe every word you said,” he whispers. “You spoke into my heart. Promise me you are not a British spy and I’ll make you a promise in return.”

‘His words exactly,’ Barley said, as if he were ashamed of them. ‘He remembered every word I’d said. And I remember every word of his.’

It was not the first time that Barley had spoken of memory as if it were an affliction, and perhaps that is why I found myself, as so often, thinking of Hannah.

‘Poor Palfrey,’ she had taunted me in one of her cruel moods, studying her naked body in the mirror as she sipped her vodka and tonic and prepared to go back to her husband. ‘With a memory like yours, how will you ever forget a girl like me?’

Did Barley have that effect on everyone? I wondered – touch their central nerve unconsciously, send them rushing to their closest thoughts? Perhaps that was what he had done to Goethe too.

The passage that followed was never paraphrased, never condensed, never ‘reconstrued’. For the initiated, either the unedited tape was played or else the transcript was offered in its entirety. For the uninitiated it never existed. It was the crux of everything that followed and it was called with deliberate obfuscation ‘the Lisbon Approach’. When the alchemists and theologians and end-users on both sides of the Atlantic had their turn, this was the passage they picked out and ran through their magic boxes to justify the preselected arguments that characterised their artful camps.

‘ “Not a spy actually, Goethe, old boy. Not now, never have been, never will. May be your line of country, not mine. How about chess? Fond of chess? Let’s talk about chess.”

‘Doesn’t seem to hear. “And you are not an American? You are nobody’s spy, not even ours?”

‘ “Goethe, listen,” I say. “I’m getting a bit jumpy, to be honest. I’m nobody’s spy. I’m me. Let’s either talk about chess or you try a different address, okay?” I thought that would shut him up, but it didn’t. Knew all about chess, he said. In chess, one chap has a strategy, and if the other chap doesn’t spot it or if he relaxes his watch, you win. In chess, the theory is the reality. But in life, in certain types of life, you can have a situation where a player has such grotesque fantasies about another one that he ends up by inventing the enemy he needs. Do I agree? Goethe, I agree totally. Then suddenly it’s not chess any more and he’s explaining himself the way Russians do when they’re drunk. Why he’s on the earth, for my ears only. Says he was born with two souls, just like Faust, which is why they call him Goethe. Says his mother was a painter but she painted what she saw, so naturally she wasn’t allowed to exhibit or buy materials. Because anything we see is a State secret. Also if it’s an illusion it’s a State secret. Even if it doesn’t work and never will, it’s a State secret. And if it’s a lie from top to bottom, then it’s the hottest State secret of the lot. Says his father did twelve years in the camps and died of a surfeit of intellectual ability. Says the problem with his father was, he was a martyr. Victims are bad enough, saints are worse, he says, but martyrs are the living end. Do I agree?

‘I agree. Don’t know why I agree but I’m a polite soul and when a chap who is clutching my head tells me his father’s done twelve years then died, I’m not about to quarrel with him even when I’m tight.

‘I ask him his real name. Says he hasn’t got one. His father took it with him. Says that in any decent society they shoot the ignorant, but in Russia it’s the other way round, so they shot his father because, unlike his mother, he refused to die of a broken heart. Says he wants to make me this promise. Says he loves the English. The English are the moral leaders of Europe, the secret steadiers, the unifiers of the great European ideal. Says the English understand the relationship between words and action whereas in Russia nobody believes in action any more, so words have become a substitute, all the way up to the top, a substitute for the truth that nobody wants to hear because they can’t change it, or they’ll lose their jobs if they change it, or maybe they simply don’t know
how
to change it. Says the Russians’ misfortune is that they long to be European but their destiny is to become American, and that the Americans have poisoned the world with materialistic logic. If my neighbour has a car, I must have two cars. If my neighbour has a gun, I must have two guns. If my neighbour has a bomb, I must have a bigger bomb and more of them, never mind they can’t reach their targets. So all I have to do is imagine my neighbour’s gun and double it and I have the justification for whatever I want to manufacture. Do I agree?’

It is a miracle that nobody interrupted here, not even Walter. But he didn’t, he held his tongue, as they all did. You don’t even hear a chair creak before Barley goes on.

‘So I agree. Yes, Goethe, I agree with you to the hilt. Anything’s better than being asked whether I’m a British spy. Starts talking about the great nineteenth-century poet and mystic Piturin.’

‘Pecherin,’ says a high sharp voice. Walter has finally brimmed over.

‘That’s right. Pecherin,’ Barley agrees. ‘Vladimir Pecherin. Pecherin wanted to sacrifice himself for mankind, die on the cross with his mother at his feet. Have I heard of him? I haven’t. Pecherin went to Ireland, became a monk, he says. But Goethe can’t do that because he can’t get a visa and anyway he doesn’t like God. Pecherin liked God and didn’t like science unless it took account of the human soul. I ask him how old he is. Goethe, not Pecherin. He looks about seven by now, going on a hundred. He says he’s nearer to death than life. He says he’s fifty but he’s just been born.’

Walter chimes in, but softly, like someone in church, not his usual squeak at all. ‘Why did you ask him his
age
? Of all the questions you could have asked? What on earth does it matter at that moment how many teeth he’s got?’

‘He’s unsettling. Not a wrinkle on him till he scowled.’

‘And he said science. Not physics. Science?’

‘Science. Then he starts reciting Pecherin. Translating as he goes. The Russian first, then the English.
How sweet it is to hate one’s native land and avidly await its ruin … and in its ruin to discern the dawn of universal renaissance.
I may not have got it quite right but that’s the gist. Pecherin understood that it was possible to love your country at the same time as hating its system, he says. Pecherin was nuts about England, just as Goethe is. England as the home of justice, truth and liberty. Pecherin showed there was nothing disloyal in betrayal provided you betrayed what you hated and fought for what you loved. Now supposing Pecherin had possessed great secrets about the Russian soul. What would he have done? Obvious. He’d have given them to the English.

‘I’m wanting him out of my hair by now. I’m getting panicky. He’s coming close again. Face against face. Wheezing and grinding like a steam engine. Heart breaking out of his chest. These big brown saucer eyes. “What have you been drinking?” I said. “Cortisone?”

‘ “You know what else you said at lunch?” he says.

‘ “Nothing,” I say. “I wasn’t there. It was two other blokes and they hit me first.” He’s not hearing me again.

‘ “You said, ‘Today one must think like a hero to behave like a merely decent human being.’”

‘ “That’s not original,” I say. “None of it is. It’s stuff I picked up. It’s not me. Now just forget everything I said and go back to your own people.” Doesn’t listen. Grabs my arm. Hands like a girl’s but they grip like iron. “Promise me that if ever I find the courage to think like a hero, you will act like a merely decent human being.”

‘ “Look,” I say. “Leave this out and let’s get something to eat. They’ve got some soup in there. I can smell it. You like soup? Soup?”

‘He’s not crying as far as I can tell but his face is absolutely soaked. Like a pain sweat all over this white skin. Hanging on to my wrist as if I were his priest. “Promise me,” he says.

‘ “But what am I supposed to be promising, for God’s sake?”

‘ “Promise you’ll behave like a gentleman.”

‘ “I’m not a gentleman. I’m a publisher.”

‘Then he laughs. First time. Huge laughter with a sort of weird click in it. “You cannot imagine how much confidence I derive from your rejection,” he says.

‘That’s where I stand up. Nice and easy, not to alarm him. While he goes on clutching me.

‘ “I commit the sin of science every day,” he says. “I turn ploughshares into swords. I mislead our masters. I mislead yours. I perpetuate the lie. I murder the humanity in myself every day. Listen to me.”

‘ “Got to go now, Goethe, old lad. All those nice lady concierges at my hotel sitting up and worrying about me. Let me loose, will you, you’re breaking my arm.”

‘Hugs me. Pulls me right on to him. Makes me feel like a fat boy, he’s so thin. Wet beard, wet hair, this burning heat.

‘ “Promise,” he says.

‘Squeezed it out of me. Fervour. Never saw anything like it. “Promise! Promise!”

‘ “All right,” I say. “If you ever manage to be a hero, I’ll be a decent human being. It’s a deal. Okay? Now let me go, there’s a good chap.”

‘ “Promise,” he says.

‘ “I promise,” I say and shove him off me.’

Walter is shouting. None of our preliminary warnings, no furious glares from Ned or Clive or myself, could switch him off any longer. ‘But did you
believe
him, Barley? Was he conning you? You’re a sharp cookie underneath the flannel. What did you
feel
?’

Silence. And more silence. Then finally, ‘He was drunk. Maybe twice in my life I’ve been as drunk as he was. Call it three times. He’d been on the white stuff all day long and he was still drinking it like water. But he’d hit one of those clear spells. I believed him. He’s not the kind of chap you don’t believe.’

Walter again, furious.

‘But
what
did you believe? What did you think he was talking to you about? What did you think he
did
? All this chatter about things not reaching their targets, lying to his masters and yours, chess that isn’t chess but something else? You can
add
, can’t you? Why didn’t you come to us? I know why! You put your head in the sand. “Don’t know because don’t
want
to know.” That’s you.’

And the next sound on the tape after that is Barley cursing himself again as he stomps round the room. ‘Damn, damn, damn,’ he whispers. On and on. Until, cutting through him, we hear Clive’s voice. If it ever falls to Clive to order the destruction of the universe, I imagine him using this same deserted tone.

‘I’m sorry but I’m afraid we’re going to need your rather serious help,’ he says.

Ironically I believe Clive
was
sorry. He was a technology man, not at ease with live sources, a suburban espiocrat of the modern school. He believed that facts were the only kind of information and he despised whoever was not ruled by them. If he liked anything at all in life apart from his own advancement and his silver Mercedes car, which he refused to take out of the garage if it had so much as a scratch on it, then it was hardware and powerful Americans in that order. For Clive to sparkle, the Bluebird should have been a broken code, a satellite or an Inter Agency committee. Then Barley need never have been born.

Whereas Ned was all the other way, and more at risk on account of it. He was by temperament and training an agent-runner and captain of men. Live sources were his element and, so far as he knew the word, his passion.

He despised the in-fighting of intelligence politics and left all that happily to Clive, just as he left the analysis to Walter. In that sense he was the determined primitive, as people who deal in human nature have to be, while Clive, to whom human nature was one vast unsavoury quagmire, enjoyed the reputation of a modernist.

5

We had moved to the library where Ned and Barley had begun. Brock had set up a screen and projector. He had put chairs in a horseshoe with a special person in his mind for each chair, for Brock, like other violent minds, had an exaggerated appetite for menial labour. He had been listening to the interview over the relay and despite his sinister inklings about Barley a glow of excitement smouldered in his pale Baltic eyes. Barley, deep in thought, lounged in the front row between Bob and Clive, a privileged if distracted guest at a private screening. I watched his head in silhouette as Brock switched on the projector, first turned downward in contemplation, then sharply upward as the first frame struck the screen. Ned sat beside me. Not a word, but I could feel the disciplined intensity of his excitement. Twenty male faces flicked across our vision, most of them Soviet scientists who on a first hasty search around the Registries of London and Langley were deemed to have had possible access to the Bluebird information. Some were featured more than once: first with beards then with their beards touched out. Others were shown when they were twenty years younger because that was all the archives had of them.

‘Not among those present,’ Barley pronounced when the parade was over, suddenly shoving his hand to his head as if he had been stung.

Bob just couldn’t believe this. His incredulities were as charming as his credulities. ‘Not even a perhaps or a maybe, Barley? You sound pretty sure of yourself for a man who was drinking well when he made the original sighting. Jesus,
I’ve
been to parties where I couldn’t remember my own name.’