Archangel Page 16

  'Yes, sir.'

  It was the fragile co-operation that existed between the Security Service and Century House that had provided the name of Michael Holly.

  When a British subject booked a flight reservation to Moscow, his name came to the attention of Security, and Security passes that name to Century. The field man in Moscow was never happy on drops and dispersals — too risky. All the diplomats were subject to surveillance, part and parcel of the job. The Second Secretary (Consular/Visa) at the Embassy would have wanted nothing to do with anything as vulgar as placing packets in rubbish bins.

  Century had an old faithful, a businessman who was a regular on the British Airways Trident to Sheremetyevo, good as gold, reliable as a Jap clock. On the plane every six weeks for a three-day trip. In a briefcase stacked full with costings and sales brochures the packets went to Moscow; in the same briefcase the material of the agent returned to Century. But the old faithful had fallen ill, pneumonia with a suspicion of pleurisy, and so faithful had the courier been that his sickness left them flattened on that section of the East Europe desk that handled the agent in the Soviet capital. So Alan Millet had sifted the names on the flight reservations for the coming month and played the computer tabs and found a cross-reference on Michael Holly, and traced back through Stepan Holovich and the case-history of an Alien's file. He'd described the recruitment to his Assistant Secretary superior as a 'piece of cake'. Seemed simple enough when you were high above the Thames looking at the world from behind the sealed plate-glass of Century House. Nothing ever went wrong, did it? Michael Holly in the park on the Lenin hills and all to keep a routine and a rhythm intact. All to keep a contact with a typist who worked within the Kremlin's walls, and who saw little that was important. What she typed she reported and, for what she reported, Michael Holly had been press-ganged into the service of his country. Alan Millet could remember the afternoon that the news had been relayed from Foreign and Commonwealth to Century House, the report that a British national had been arrested in the foyer of the Rossiya hotel and that he would face charges of espionage. He remembered that as a miserable afternoon, an afternoon when he had shivered in the face of Century's central heating. 'One of yours. . . ?' the FCO minute had drily queried.

  'That's all, Millet. . . you'll not forget him?' The Deputy Under Secretary turned away. The meeting was terminated.

  'No, sir.'

  if I thought you'd forget him I'd break your neck.'

  Millet let himself out of the room. As he closed the door quietly he heard the lifting of a telephone.

  'Maude . . . I'd like an appointment this afternoon with the Permanent Under Secretary at Foreign and Commonwealth.'

  'PUS at FCO, I'll arrange it.'

  It had been an absurdly slow and uninteresting evening, even for so travel-scarred a diplomat as the Ambassador.

  For close to four years he had performed his duties of office at the Kremlin's receptions. They never improved, they never crawled above the level of extreme tedium.

  With the Diplomatic Corps he had stood in line for thirty-five minutes in the St Andrew's Hall, waiting for what he usually referred to as the Home Team to make their appearance with their principal guest. They had been late, and he had felt around him the sweat of the Third World, the noise of the New World, the breath of the Old World.

  The Home Team had finally emerged to lead, in ponderous convoy, the mincing clan of diplomats up the sweeping staircase. It was one of the Ambassador's tasks to watch the procession of the leaders. The order in which they formed up was of importance, who was relegated to the fourth row, who was brought from the back to the second row, who required the help of a stick. The President was heavy on his feet again, worse than last month, better than in the summer.

  And so to the food.

  Standing around tables laden with caviar and smoked sturgeon, holding a glass that was resolutely refilled with vodka or Armenian brandy, he waited for an opportunity to speak quietly into the ear of an interpreter should one of the great men of the regime hover close to him. He never chased after them at a function such as this, sometimes they came and sometimes they did not. He'd explained that to Foreign and Commonwealth.

  The instructions from London had been quite specific.

  They wanted the matter raised as an informal question, not taken to the Ministry during working hours. Through an ocean of Third World faces the Minister caught the eye of the Ambassador, nodded an acknowledgement and made a path for himself through the guests. The interpreter hovered close by, treated with the respect an old man gives to his truss but indispensable for all that.

  'Excellency . . . '

  'Good evening, Sir Edward . .. you are enjoying yourself?'

  'As always the hospitality is extreme. I hope that soon we can reciprocate the entertainment at the Embassy.'

  They never came to the Embassy if they could avoid it.

  Juniors only for the Queen's Birthday Party.

  'You have a Parliamentary delegation here in a few days, the arrangements are completed?'

  'I am confident that the visit will be splendidly interesting to our Members of Parliament.'

  The Ambassador had worn a monocle since he had been an undergraduate at Cambridge. For effect only, plain glass, but from his first day in Moscow the Soviets had been bemused by its eccentricity. Whenever it seemed likely to slip, the Ambassador grinned and the movement of his muscles held fast the monocle over his eye.

  The Minister smiled back, perhaps he had lost a moment of humour through the passage of translation. 'We must meet again soon . .

  'Excellency . . .'

  'I have many guests to meet.'

  'One matter. .. briefly . . . '

  The Minister laughed. The medal of the Order of Lenin flapped slightly on his breast. 'Are we working tonight?'

  'Excellency, it is my hope that the visit of our Parlia-mentarians will start to ease the climate of misunderstanding that has prevailed between our two governments in recent months . . .'

  'I hope so too, Sir Edward.'

  'There is another matter where an action of clemency from the Soviet government would be received with great gratitude by my government.'

  'Clemency? In what case do you request our clemency?'

  For both men the banter was concluded. The Minister looked sharply into the Ambassador's eye and monocle.

  'A young British national named Michael Holly. He has served one year of a fifteen-year sentence.'

  'Refresh my memory.'

  it was alleged in court that he was engaged in espionage activities. The allegation was strenuously denied by both my government and by the young man in question. An act of clemency now would have far-reaching effects on the relations between your government and mine.'

  The Minister's eyes narrowed behind his steel-lipped spectacles. The Ambassador grinned and the monocle wavered.

  'A bit of paper would settle it, Sir Edward,' the Minister replied crisply. 'A bit of paper from your government for public release that acknowledges the involvement of this young man in espionage activities on behalf of the British secret services against my country. I would have thought that after the release of such a text we would regard your request for clemency most favourably . . . As you see, Sir Edward, I have many who are waiting to see me . . . I hope that you enjoy the rest of your evening.'

  The Ambassador sought out the Australian and the Cana-dian. In times of adversity it was general for the Old Commonwealth to stand shoulder to shoulder.

  They had never beaten the Whitehall pigeons, the Foreign Secretary reflected. For all that Public Works spent in frightening the little beasts away, they returned in perpetuity to ladle their droppings over the walls and windows of the centre of government. Heaven only knew what it cost to clean the ranks of FCO windows and it had been done last week with an army swinging from cradles and ladders. But the smears were back. He watched one dribble sinking on the pane through which he looked out over St James's Park.

 
The view from his office was one of the great pleasures of government. In winter the sounds of the traffic flow were sealed outside, and the cars and lorries and taxis moved in a silent ballet. The troopers of the Household Cavalry tripped the length of the Mall behind the noiseless marching of a brilliantly decorated military band. The secretaries came with paper bags to feed the birds of the park's ponds. Only the bloody pigeons, wheeling and arcing and crapping, spoiled the serenity of the view. They'd have to be culled, come to that in the end, and bugger what the old ladies said.

  'DUS is here, Foreign Secretary.'

  He turned reluctantly from the panorama. The Permanent Under Secretary always entered with the footfall of a ghost, as if he was above knocking.

  'I did tell you he was coming, Foreign Secretary.'

  'Of course you d i d . . . about Michael Holly, yes?'

  'About Michael Holly . . . '

  The Permanent Under Secretary lowered himself into an armchair. The Foreign Secretary glared. Who ran the bloody place, PUS or Minister? The Deputy Under Secretary was still standing, there at least were some manners.

  'Won't you sit down, DUS ?'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Don't call me that, for Christ's sake. I've told you that before.'

  The Foreign Secretary was at his desk. The Deputy Under Secretary sat forward on a settee. The Permanent Under Secretary lolled back in his armchair. Three men who had gathered in an upstairs office of Whitehall to talk of a man serving time in a Correctional Labour Colony.

  'The Ambassador's not hopeful,' the Permanent Under Secretary intoned, in a way he had a bit of luck last night, managed to get the ear of the Foreign Minister, and that's higher than he could have hoped. The message came back loud and clear. If we admit to espionage in the Holly case, then we can have him. But we have to claim him, we have to wear the hair shirt.'

  'Don't like that.' The Foreign Secretary drummed his fingers on the desk top. 'They'd trumpet it round the world.

  Afterwards it wouldn't matter a damn how hard we re-tracted. If we're belting them for Afghanistan, for Angola, for Ethiopia, then we have to be clean. Apologizing for Michael Holly as a British agent is not being clean.'

  'Then Mr Holly stays where he is.'

  The Permanent Under Secretary beat the bowl of his pipe into the palm of his hand. Most of the inner debris reached the ashtray, some fell to the cream-based carpet. He saw the annoyance of the Foreign Secretary.

  it's an unhappy option . . . What are your feelings, Deputy Under Secretary?'

  'I'd not like an admission, Foreign Secretary.'

  'Then, that's where he stays.'

  'Admissions smack of incompetence.'

  This was a matter of incompetence.' The Permanent Under Secretary spoke through a tower of smoke.

  'Before my time,' the Deputy Under Secretary said evenly.

  'Of course, it's not totally in our hands. We may dismiss the option of admission, but that's not to say that Mr Holly won't get into that game himself. He could, conceivably, go public to get himself out.'

  'Wouldn't matter,' the Permanent Under Secretary said with confidence. 'Brain-washing and all that. . . We could stand that, not in the same league as us chipping in first and claiming him.'

  in fact, it's not that likely that he'll bend.'

  'Tough chap, is he?' The Foreign Secretary barked the question as if his interest in the matter was revived.

  'Quite tough, they say.'

  'Good, very good . . . because we won't be pulling him out. Perhaps we should try again in a few years, three or four, things might be easier then. Are those places really as bad as they're painted? They must have civilized themselves a trifle since Stalin.'

  The Deputy Under Secretary examined his finger nails.

  He was adept at hiding private pain, personal shame. He stayed silent.

  Did it always rain in January in London? Alan Millet's shoes were again wet, stained with damp.

  He couldn't fathom the Deputy Under Secretary. Incredible that he should be sent out on such a chase as this, and on the DUS's personal instructions. He'd enough work on his desk. Everyone accepted that East European carried the heaviest load at Century. But the DUS commanded and Alan Millet was paid to jump.

  An insignificant sign told him that he had reached the door he wanted.

  Amnesty International (British Section).

  Not a place where a government civil servant was ever at ease. Fine when they were bashing the Soviets, the East Germans, the North Vietnamese, the Argentines. Awkward when they shouted against the regimes of Central America that were linked with the old ally. Impossible when they reported on the torture of Irishmen in Belfast. In the hallway he saw a poster with the motif of a candle coiled by barbed wire. The home of an organization, voluntarily funded, that struggled to win freedom for thousands of men and women, classified as Prisoners of Conscience, scattered in gaols across the world.

  He took the lift. He asked, in a waiting room littered with pamphlets and cigarette ends, for the girl whom he had telephoned for an appointment.

  She came through a door that had been security locked.

  Jeans and sweatshirt and a baggy sweater, and he felt the daftness of his suit. She led him through a maze of passages to a room piled with unsorted papers, stacked books. She found him a chair that he thought might collapse. For a moment he pondered on young people who gave their time for a pittance to help innocents in faraway cells.

  She spoke with a ladies' college accent. Her fingers were deeply stained with nicotine, her hair pony-tailed with an elastic band.

  'You wanted to know about Camp 3, Barashevo? Right?

  There's a complex there, one of the largest of the whole Dubrovlag. There's the Central Hospital, there's a small camp for men, there's the large camp, and each of those has its own Factory area. There's also a small camp for women.

  The larger camp for men is classified as ZhKh 385/3/1, and about eight hundred men are held there. I think that's the one you're interested in - ZhKh 385/3/1. There are six sleeping huts and the usual kitchens and bath houses and store sheds, all fairly typical of an old camp, goes right back to the purge days and pre-war. The prisoners there are on Strict Regime. We don't have a great deal of information any more because the people we are concerned with have mostly been moved away to the Perm camps. We have only one at Camp 3, Zone 1. He's a Jewish dissident that we've adopted as a "P of C" - that's Prisoner of Conscience. He's Anatoly Feldstein, convicted of passing samizdat documents . . . we might get him out. They're not very interested in him or they wouldn't have let him stay there, they'd have moved him to Perm with what they call "especially dangerous state criminals". The commandant is an elderly army officer, Kypov, bit of a martinet but not a sadist. The Political Officer, that's KGB, is quite a young chap. The name we have is Yuri Rudakov. In the Factory they make . . .'

  'Tell me about Rudakov.'

  'Rudakov . . . We had something on him about a year ago. He's young for the job, first time in the camps from what we gather. He'll be on his way through, doing one posting and then coming out. It's a long time, as I say, since we've had up to date information . . . '

  'More about Rudakov, please.'

  'We had something from Feldstein, but it's a year old.

  There was just a passing reference to Rudakov.. .that he was intelligent, that he didn't seem very interested in Feldstein.'

  'Does that mean he's looking for the easy life?'

  'Christ, no . . . it means that Feldstein isn't a hero. There are passive and active prisoners. Some are overwhelmed, some struggle. Feldstein doesn't shout, so he's left to himself. As I say, we think we might get him out. He's not a name we push and we hope that gives him a better chance.

  We push with Orlov and Shcharansky, people like that, because it helps them. We leave Feldstein alone.'

  'You don't have any more on Rudakov?'

  'Only what I've told you.'

  Millet felt the inadequacy of his question, it's
a pretty hard place, Zone i ?'

  The girl pushed her papers away across the table to signify she had more important work to complete.

  'You have a friend in there?'

  'You could call him a friend.'

  'Hard as a nightmare, that's what I'd call it, Mr Millet.'

  Chapter 12

  The name of the punishment isolation cell is Shtrafnoi Izolyator, and the zeks have abreviated the words to SHIzo.

  There is a minimum-maximum spell in the SHIzo, and that is fifteen days. Men who are sent to the SHIzo are taken outside the main perimeter of the camp to a separate compound. The unit that houses the SHIzo cells is single-storey and built of brick. Inside each long wall is a corridor that runs the length of the building and the cells form the core of the block and run back to back. Sometimes there are wooden framed bunks, sometimes the prisoners must sleep on the floor, rest their heads on their boots. Here is no heating, and the water runs on the peeling, whitewashed walls. There is a slop bucket for the long night hours and the cells stink with the waste smell of the prisoners. The rations fed to the men in the SHIzo cells are reduced, cut to 1750

  calories per day, and they must work in a Factory that is specifically for them. The SHIzo cells are the home of tuberculosis and the ulcer and infection and lice. Bedding is not issued, reading matter is not permitted, letters and parcels are not allowed, visits are cancelled. The window of the cell is small and high, the light that burns round the clock is small and dimmed.

  The prisoner is cold, wet, hungry and exhausted. He can believe here that he is forgotten. A man may shout and he will not be answered, he may scream and he will not be heard. The SHIzo cell is the ultimate punishment of the Correctional Labour Colony.

  The name of Michael Holly was written in thin chalk on the outer surface of the cell door.

  He had been in the cell for nine days. Nine days' solitary.

  Half an hour's exercise in the morning, walking behind another's back in a yard with high cement walls and a wire net at the top, and the exercise time must also be used for washing, and cleaning the cell and emptying the bucket. The work is done in the extended end cell of the corridor. The fine polishing of wooden cases for clocks. Not like the big Factory where men could talk as they worked. There is silence in the SHIzo Factory. No civilian labour is permitted to enter the SHIzo block for supervision work. Warders rule here, and the quota has been set higher than in the big Factory. If a man disputes, complains, then the penalty is automatic and summary. That is a new offence, that calls for an additional fifteen days and the sentence will be consecutive.