Kyiv (Spoils of War) Page 5

  ‘… duds,’ he said.

  ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘They did their best. Most of them died. The rest probably spent the next month walking to the German border. The clues had been there for years. All you had to do was listen to some of the politicians with eyes in their head, read some of the stuff coming out of Berlin, and maybe take Hitler at his word. Those poor…’ He frowned. The stammer was back.

  ‘Bastards?’

  ‘… yes. Thank you. Those poor bastards on the hill died because of us, because of our negligence. Chamberlain was naïve enough to believe in peace and we were naïve enough to take him at his word. Denial is a capital offence, Tam. As those lads above Amiens found out.’

  ‘And you? What happened?’

  ‘We were lucky. The gods of war took care of us. We had access to transport and enough petrol to get us to Boulogne. You’d think getting out in one piece might warrant a glass or two and you’d be right, but no one was celebrating. We felt shame, Tam. We’d let those lads down and…’ He frowned for a moment, staring hard at his empty glass, his fists balling, then looked up again, ‘… all we could do was drown our sorrows.’

  Moncrieff was gazing at the remains of his meal. He’d heard similar stories from friends in the armed forces, an army falling apart in front of their eyes, but rarely expressed with such venom. This was a different side of Philby, hinting at an unexpected rawness, and he wondered whether it might account for the stammer. This man has belief, he thought, and a bottomless talent for disgust.

  ‘And now?’ he murmured.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘You think anything’s different? You think we’ve moved on?’

  ‘Not at all. We’re fucked, Tam. Royally screwed. We seem to have been spared an invasion but we’re still flat broke. Most of Europe is busy learning German and most of America has turned its back. The Ivans are suddenly on our side, which may or may not be a blessing, but I wouldn’t count on Moscow being Russian by Christmas. Plucky little England is a wonderful phrase, but it butters no parsnips. Liver OK, by the way? No chewy bits?’

  Philby called for more drinks while Moncrieff excused himself and found the toilets. When he got back to the table, the envelope was still tucked into Philby’s Army blouse, untouched. Philby’s glass, on the other hand, was already half empty.

  ‘The lovely Miss Menzies,’ he was beaming. ‘Tell me everything.’

  Moncrieff parried the question with a shrug. He was getting used to Philby’s abrupt conversational swerves, passion one moment, small talk the next.

  ‘You know her well?’

  ‘Professionally, a little. In every other respect, sadly not. You’re a lucky man, Tam. She’s dotty about you.’

  ‘How would you know that?’

  ‘Because she told me. We had a couple of drinks at Northolt the night before she left us. She couldn’t stop talking about that place of yours in the mountains. It seems you walked the legs off her and did the cooking to boot. In my book that’s code for besotted.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Her.’

  ‘She’s back on the books?’

  ‘Ours, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve no idea. That’s way above my pay grade.’

  ‘So, what was she doing here? Back home?’

  ‘She came over with the little sapper chap. Ilya somebody. Delivered him to Fort Halstead. I gather the boffins down there loved him. He brought vodka by the crateful and drank them under the table. Once he’d done the business, she flew back with him. She didn’t tell you about Halstead?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  Moncrieff let the question hang in the air. Fort Halstead was a government outpost near Sevenoaks. It specialised in explosives research.

  ‘We were on leave,’ Moncrieff murmured at last. ‘Never mix business with pleasure. Isn’t that what the Arabs taught your Pa?’

  *

  Lunch over, Philby walked Moncrieff to the Central Registry. MI6’s archived and current files were stored at Prae Wood, a stately pile that also housed some of the agency’s other departments. The rain had stopped now, and Moncrieff followed Philby as he stepped carefully around the puddles in front of the house.

  The Registry was at the back of the building, a wilderness of shelves that seemed to go on forever. Individual files were stored in cardboard boxes. Each box was colour-coded and carried an additional line of stencilled capital letters, while the files themselves occupied manila folders, hole-punched on one corner and tied with green shoelaces. Moncrieff, ushered into the Registry’s central office, found himself looking at a file with Bella’s name on it. Another present, he thought.

  ‘Is this for me?’ He glanced sideways at Philby.

  ‘Of course it is. Allow me to do the honours. Captain Woodfield is our Master Archivist, the keeper of all our secrets. He used to be in Special Branch, so watch your manners. Tam Moncrieff here used to be in the Marines, Bill. He’ll know fifty ways of killing you but he’s thoroughly house-trained. Be gentle with him, please. Share and share alike, eh?’

  A shortish man with thinning hair rose to his feet behind the desk and offered Moncrieff a clammy handshake. His abandoned jacket hung on the back of his chair, and the food stains on his shirt looked recent. His face was purpled with a lifetime’s drinking, and his eyes – post-lunch – were swimming.

  ‘Isobel Menzies?’ he nodded down at the file. ‘No relation, I assume?’

  ‘None at all. Not so far as I know.’ Sir Stewart Menzies, known as ‘C’, was the head of MI6. ‘C’ stood for Controller.

  ‘Tam here has an interest. May I?’ Philby reached for the file and murmured something about finding their visitor a bit of peace and quiet, but Moncrieff hadn’t finished.

  ‘May I leave you another name?’ he was still looking at Woodfield.

  ‘Of course,’ he reached for a pen. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Krivitsky.’

  ‘You mean Walter?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  There was a brief exchange of glances between Woodfield and Philby, then Woodfield returned his gaze to Moncrieff.

  ‘You have time for all this? Both files? Menzies needn’t keep you long, but our Walter is probably a day’s reading. At least.’

  ‘That won’t be a problem. I can always come back.’

  ‘Absolutely, and you’ll be most welcome.’ It was Philby. Moncrieff felt the gentlest pressure on his arm. ‘Time waits for no man, my friend. Least of all us. Cell five, Bill? The usual?’

  ‘Four. It’s got a nicer view.’

  Moncrieff followed Philby out of the office. Philby was carrying the file. A line of reading cubicles lay beyond the endless shelves of file boxes, tiny cubby holes with a desk and a single chair. Cell, he thought, was a perfect description.

  ‘View?’ The cubicles had no windows.

  ‘Bill’s little joke, Tam. It’s what’s inside that matters.’ He tapped the file and then gave it to Moncrieff. ‘Page seventeen, third entry. Hope you don’t mind but I had a little peek earlier. Tea in an hour or so? I’ll see what I can do.’ He smiled at Moncrieff and gestured towards the cubicle. ‘Gute Jagd, ja?’

  Good hunting.

  Moncrieff watched Philby wander back towards the office before making himself comfortable at the desk and opening the file. The corner of page seventeen had been turned over. Each of the entries was dated. On 27 August 1938, Support Officer Isobel Menzies had received a visitor at the Berlin Embassy. His name?

  Moncrieff lifted his head. Me, he thought. He stared at the partition wall for a long moment, trying to remember his first sight of Bella as he’d waited beside the embassy’s reception desk. He’d been sitting on a leather banquette watching comings and goings on the Wilhelmstrasse while she ghosted down the staircase, unannounced. She’d been wearing an emerald-green dress that barely covered her knees. He remembered the fall of blonde hair, how tall she was, and how tanned her bare legs
had been. She’d looked down at him before he sprung to his feet, and he remembered her air of frank appraisal before she’d smiled. The smile was brimming with mischief and best of all he remembered that tiny moment of complicity between them, rich with promise.

  ‘Knock, knock…’ Moncrieff looked up. It was Philby. He was carrying two thick files. ‘Our Walter,’ he said. ‘Compliments of Captain Bill. I’m afraid he’s right, Tam, you’ll need more than an afternoon. He’s open for business tomorrow and you’re welcome to stay the night chez nous. It’s a bit chaotic, I’m afraid, but Aileen cooks like a dream. She’s also chums with a talented poacher.’ He gave Moncrieff the files and backed out of the cubicle before pausing. ‘Oh yes, and one other thing. We’re a man short for tomorrow afternoon’s game. The weather’s on the mend. Any chance?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of joining us. We play cricket, Tam,’ that smile again. ‘Though we never expect to win.’

  6

  SATURDAY 13 SEPTEMBER 1941

  Bella awoke in pitch darkness, aware only of the presence of the kitten. It was sitting on the pillow beside her head, licking her ear, and if purring was any guide to contentment then it was settling in nicely. She began to stroke it, murmuring endearments in Russian, thinking she was alone. Then came a nearby grunt and she heard a stirring in the darkness, and when the question came, that, too, was in Russian.

  ‘You’re OK?’ A woman’s voice.

  ‘I’m fine. Blame the kitten.’

  ‘Mitya? Sweet.’

  Larissa, Bella thought, Ilya’s journalist friend she’d met last night. She’d been in the city less than half a day. Glivenko had taken her to the commandeered offices that served as the NKVD’s local headquarters, introduced her to one face after another, told them how precious she was and how well connected. They were to keep an eye on her. They were to make sure she came to no harm.

  Bella had always paid a great deal of attention to body language and everything she saw, every last clue, told her these men held Glivenko in great esteem. Hours later, he took her to a restaurant in one of the hotels on Khreshchatyk, the city’s major boulevard, and when he told her that she’d be safe here, at least until the Germans arrived, she believed him. For whatever reason, the men in the Big House had rejoined the human race.

  Larissa had appeared in the restaurant shortly afterwards. Thunder had been rolling towards the city for the last hour, steadily advancing – said Glivenko – like distant artillery fire, and Larissa brushed droplets of rain from her greying hair. She was a handsome woman, close to middle age, smartly dressed, strong features, hints of Jewish blood in her deep brown eyes. According to Glivenko, she worked for the city’s official newspaper, Novoe Ukrainskoe Slovo, and was the best-connected journalist in Kyiv. If Bella was interested in what it meant to be Ukrainian, then she’d find no better guide.

  By now, to Bella’s enormous relief, Glivenko had concluded that his exotic English translator was in deep trouble. He’d listened hard to the few clues Bella had let slip and guessed the rest. They were friends. Kyiv, just days away from some catastrophe that Bella had yet to fully understand, was the perfect place to hide. She very definitely needed help. And The Pianist was only too happy to oblige.

  The three of them shared a meal and a bottle of wine. Bella had never been in a city under siege and the very normality of everything took her by surprise. The trams were still running. There was still a little food in the shops, women bargaining for winter wear in the open-air markets, kids chasing clouds of pigeons. The restaurant was comfortably full and though men in uniform vastly outnumbered civilian diners, there was nothing unavailable on the menu, and – to Bella’s unschooled eye – no obvious signs of unease.

  She and Larissa bonded at once, a mysterious establishment of mutual trust that was becoming more and more rare in Stalin’s Moscow. Both women attracted attention, especially from certain kinds of men at neighbouring tables. Both women were curious about the world around them. And both women, Bella suspected, enjoyed a degree of risk, even recklessness, in their professional and perhaps private lives.

  Pressed by Larissa for news from Moscow, Bella talked about survival. Getting by, she said, was no longer a matter of food and drink. The madness of the Vodzh, of the leadership, was everywhere and if you were wise you trusted no one and kept your mouth shut. Even in high summer, with the parks a riot of flowers and the trees in full leaf, people had winter in their hearts. The national palette, she said, offered nothing but an endless variety of greys. Grey for resignation. Grey for helplessness. Grey for fear. Larissa, she’d noticed, chain-smoked one of Stalin’s favourite cigarettes, Kazbekis, but her gaze never wavered behind the thin veil of smoke. She was happy to let Bella do most of the talking and, when it came to a rare question, she never wasted a word. The pitch of her voice was unforgettable, almost a man’s timbre, rich and deep.

  ‘So what are you doing in Moscow?’ Larissa had just summoned the waiter after they’d decided on another bottle of Georgian champagne.

  ‘I defected,’ Bella said simply. ‘I decided to join you.’

  ‘You joined them, not us. There’s a difference.’ She put an apologetic hand on Glivenko’s arm and told him he could be an honorary Ukrainian any time he liked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bella said. ‘That was my fault. Maybe I signed up for an idea, not a country at all, not a regime. Either way, I made a choice, and it took me to Moscow.’

  ‘You work for the state?’

  ‘Everyone works for the state.’

  ‘I mean the NKVD, the Big House.’

  ‘In a way, yes. Once a spy…’

  ‘Really?’ she seemed shocked. ‘You spied for these people? In your own country?’

  ‘In Berlin, as it happens, but it’s the same sin. The small print was fascinating. You’re like the tramp in the street, always looking for fag ends, little bits of information that might turn out to be useful. I had a desk in the British Embassy. I expect you can work out the rest.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The Soviets assign you a handler. You meet the man at agreed times and places, and hand stuff over, stuff you’ve either copied or stolen. It’s a love affair, really. Totally illicit. Lots of trysts. Lots of moments when you think you might have blown it. Better than sex in some respects.’

  ‘Really?’ Larissa and Glivenko exchanged glances, and for the first time Bella wondered whether they were together.

  The waiter arrived with the champagne and recharged the glasses. The waiter gone, Larissa lit another cigarette before proposing a toast.

  ‘To your precious love affair,’ she growled. ‘Long may it last.’

  *

  Now, at God knows what hour, Bella heard Larissa padding across towards the window. After the restaurant, she’d offered Bella the spare bed in her apartment and Bella had been only too pleased to say yes. The swish of the heavy drapes parting at the window made the kitten jump and the room was suddenly bathed in a thin yellowish light. Bella got up on one elbow, aware of Larissa peering down at the street. Already she’d found a cigarette and something had caught her attention. She moved slowly back, hugging the shadows, fastening the robe she’d rescued from the back of a chair, the cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.

  ‘You look like a movie star. Maybe Joan Fontaine.’ Bella yawned, rubbing her eyes, trying to still the beginnings of a hangover. ‘Is there something wrong out there?’

  Larissa shook her head. She wanted to know about Joan Fontaine.

  ‘She’s wonderful, played against Laurence Olivier in a movie called Rebecca. They fixed a screening for Stalin. I managed to wangle an invitation to talk him through the plot.’ Bella laughed. ‘Wonderful bone structure. Great presence.’

  ‘Stalin?’

  ‘Joan Fontaine. You should take a compliment.’ She frowned, watching the glow of the cigarette in the half-darkness. ‘There is someone down there.’

  Larissa shook her head. Moments later she’d sett
led on the end of Bella’s bed.

  ‘What have you done to upset them?’ she asked. ‘Be honest.’

  ‘Upset who?’

  ‘Our friends from the Big House. They always drive Emkas. These people aren’t subtle.’

  ‘That’s because they want to be seen. It’s part of the game.’

  ‘I know. This town will never be Moscow, thank God, but don’t blame the Big House for trying. They’ve squeezed this place half to death, and what’s left will go to the Germans.’ Larissa took a long pull at the cigarette, her head back, her eyes closed. ‘You haven’t answered my question, by the way. Everything happens for a reason. Even here.’

  Bella realised she’d made the wrong assumptions at the Big House. Glivenko, bless him, was a fantasist. There was no such thing as an NKVD man with a conscience, or even a sense of humour. They all came from the same egg: single-minded, pitiless, dead-eyed, hatched to serve no one but their current masters.

  ‘Well?’ Larissa was still waiting for an answer.

  ‘I’ve upset some people in Moscow.’

  ‘At the Big House?’

  ‘Probably beyond, probably higher. If I sound grand, I don’t mean to. The world is always more complicated than you think. My mistake was taking belief at face value. Commitment is a fine thing, and so is faith in the outcome, but never confuse it with real life. First, they grind you to dust. Then they blow you away. Does any of that sound familiar?’

  Larissa smiled. Then she began to pick at a loose thread in the eiderdown.

  ‘You like Ilya?’ she asked.

  ‘That would be my question.’

  ‘You think he’s a good man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re right. And you know something else? There are good men everywhere. Here. Odessa. Even Moscow. Do they count? Does anyone ever listen to them? Yes, of course they do. At the beginning, their voices matter. Without them nothing happens. But afterwards it’s different. Afterwards, the only thing that matters is power. Life is a theatre, and we all need to pay more attention to the plot. Go to sleep for half an act, maybe even a key scene, and the story’s suddenly beyond you. You can’t make sense of it. First you feel helpless, then you want to go home, but you know that’s impossible because there are rules here, an etiquette, ways you do and don’t behave, and anyway it’s hopeless because they’ve locked all the doors. There are two men outside in their Emkas. If we’re very lucky, it’s just a warning. Tomorrow we’ll get you out of here and find a place they’ll never think of looking. And after that, you can start practising your German.’