Soviet Military Intelligence.She was more than uneasy now. She was frightened and tried to pull away.
‘Please, Comrade.’ His grip tightened. ‘You’ll only hurt yourself by struggling and you have a concert tonight. We don’t want to disappoint your fans.’
There was something in his eyes, a hint of cruelty, of perversity, that was very disturbing. ‘Leave me alone!’ She tried to strike him and he blocked her blow with ease. ‘You’ll answer for this. Don’t you know who my father is?’
‘Lieutenant-General Ivan Maslovsky of the KGB, under whose direct orders I am acting now, so be a good girl and do as you are told.’
She had no will to resist, so great was the shock, and found herself sitting next to Natasha who was close to tears. Turkin got in on the other side.
‘Back to the Embassy!’ he told the chauffeur.
As the Mercedes pulled away, Tanya held on to Natasha’s hand tightly. For the first time since she was a little girl, she felt really and truly afraid.
NIKOLAI BELOV was in his fifties, a handsome enough man with the slightly fleshy face of someone who enjoyed the good things of life more than was healthy for him, the kind of good Marxist whose dark suit and overcoat had been tailored in London’s Savile Row. The silver hair and decadent good looks gave him the air of an ageing and rather distinguished actor instead of a colonel in the KGB.
This trip to Lyons could hardly have been classified as essential business, but it had been possible to take his secretary, Irana Vronsky, with him. As she had been his mistress for some years now, it meant that they had enjoyed an extremely pleasurable couple of days, the memory of which had faded rather rapidly when he discovered the situation waiting for him on his return to the Soviet Embassy.
He had hardly settled into his office when Irana came in. ‘There’s an urgent communication from KGB Moscow for your eyes only.’
‘Who’s it from?’
‘General Maslovsky.’
The name alone was enough to bring Belov to his feet. He went out and she followed him down to the coding office where the operator got the relevant tape. Belov keyed in his personal code, the machine whirred, the operator tore off the print-out sheet and handed it to him. Belov read it and swore softly. He took Irana by the elbow and hurried her out. ‘Get me Lieutenant Shepilov and Captain Turkin. Whatever else they’re on, they drop.’
Belov was seated at his desk, working his way through papers when the door opened and Irana Vronsky ushered in Tanya, Natasha Rubenova and Shepilov and Turkin. Belov knew Tanya well. His official position at the Embassy for some years had been senior cultural attache. As part of that cover role he had escorted her to parties on a number of occasions.
He stood up. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘I demand to know what’s going on here,’ she told him passionately. ‘I’m pulled off the pavement by these bully boys here and…’
‘I’m sure Captain Turkin was only acting as he saw fit.’ Belov nodded to Irana. ‘Get the Moscow call now.’ He turned to Tanya. ‘Calm yourself and sit down.’ She stood there, mutinous, then glanced at Shepilov and Turkin standing against the wall, gloved hands folded in front of them. ‘Please,’ Belov said.
She sat and he offered her a cigarette. Such was her agitation that she took it and Turkin moved in smoothly and lit it for her. His lighter was not only by Carrier, but gold. She coughed as the smoke caught at the back of her throat.
Belov said, ‘Now tell me what you did this morning.’
‘I walked to the Tuileries Gardens.’ The cigarette was helping, calming her down. She had control now and that meant she could fight.
‘And then?’
‘I went into the Louvre.’
‘And who did you talk to?’
The question was direct and meant to entrap by causing an automatic response. To her own surprise, she found herself replying calmly, ‘I was on my own. I didn’t go with anyone. Perhaps I didn’t make that clear?’
‘Yes, I know that,’ he said patiently. ‘But did you speak to anyone when you got there? Did anyone approach you?’