Belov was on another glass of champagne, deep in conversation with the Minister of Culture, when Turkin tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Colonel, but could I have a word?’ and he took him into the nearest corner and broke the bad news.
Nikolai Belov had always found that adversity brought out the best in him. He had never been one to cry over spilt milk. At his office at the Embassy, he sat behind the desk and faced Natasha Rubenova, Shepilov and Turkin stood by the door.
‘I ask you again, Comrade,’ he said to her. ‘Did she say anything to you? Surely you of all people would have had some idea of her intentions?’
She was distressed and tearful, all quite genuine, and it helped her to lie easily. ‘I’m as much at a loss as you are, Comrade Colonel.’
He sighed and nodded to Turkin who moved up behind her, shoving her down into a chair. He pulled off his right glove and squeezed her neck, pinching a nerve and sending a wave of appalling pain through her.
‘I ask you again,’ Nikolai Belov said gently. ‘Please be sensible, I hate this kind of thing.’
Natasha, filled with pain, rage and humiliation, did the bravest thing of her life. ‘Please! Comrade, I swear she told me nothing! Nothing!’
She screamed again as Turkin’s ringer found the nerve and Belov waved a hand. ‘Enough. I’m satisfied she’s telling the truth. What would her purpose be in lying?’
She sat there, huddled, weeping and Turkin said, ‘What now, Comrade?’
‘We have the airports fully covered. No possible flight she could have taken yet.’
‘And Calais and Boulogne?’
‘Our people are already on their way by road. The soonest she could leave from both places would be on one of the morning ferries and they will be there before those leave.’
Shepilov, who seldom spoke, said quietly, ‘Excuse me, Comrade Colonel, but have you considered the fact that she may have sought asylum at the British Embassy?’
‘Of course,’ Belov told him. ‘As it happens, since June of last year, we have a surveillance system operating at the entrance during the hours of darkness for rather obvious reasons. She has certainly not appeared there yet and if she does so…’ he shrugged.
The door opened and Irana Vronsky hurried in. ‘Lubov direct from Dublin for you, Comrade. Most urgent. The radio room have patched it through. Line one.’
Belov picked up the phone and listened. When he finally put it down, he was smiling. ‘So far so good. She’s on the night train to Rennes. Let’s have a look at the map.’ He nodded to Natasha. ‘Take her out, Irana.’
I2.I
Turkin said, ‘But why Rennes?’
Belov found it on the map on the wall. ‘To change trains for St Malo. From there she will catch the hydrofoil to Jersey in the Channel Islands.’
‘British soil?’
‘Exactly. Jersey, my dear Turkin, may be small, but it is very possibly the most important off-shore finance base in the world. They have an excellent airport, several flights a day to London and many other places.’
‘All right,’ Turkin said. ‘We must drive to St Malo. Get there ahead of her.’
‘Just a moment. Let’s have a look in Michelin.’ Belov found the red guide in the top left hand drawer of his desk and leafed through.®
‘Here we are – St Malo. Three hundred and seventy-two miles from Paris and a great deal of that through the Brittany countryside. Impossible to get there by car now, not in time. Go along to Bureau Five, Turkin. Let’s see if they’ve got anyone we can use in St Malo. And you, Shepilov. Tell Irana I want all the information she has on Jersey. Airport, harbour, plane and boat schedules and so on – and hurry.’
At Cavendish Square, Kim was making up the fire in the sitting room while Ferguson, in an old towelling robe, sat at the desk working his way through a mass of papers.
The Gurkha stood up. ‘Coffee, Sahib?’
‘God, no, Kim. Tea, nice and fresh and keep it coming and some sort of sandwiches. Leave it to you.’