balanced the cigarette in an ashtray and picked up his glass. ‘I don’t
real y know if I wil get any pleasure from working on you. Don’t you
English have a proverb – “It hurts me as much as it hurts you.” He waved his hand. ‘But perhaps I’ve got it wrong.’
‘I’m not English,’ I said. ‘I’m a Scot.’
‘A difference that makes no difference is no difference. But I’l tel
you something – you made a great difference to me and to my life.’ He
took a gulp of /brennivin./ ‘Tel me that girl you’ve been running
around with ? Elin Ragnarsdottir; are you in love with her?’
I felt myself tighten. ‘She’s got nothing to do with this.’
He laughed. ‘Do not trouble yourself. I have no intention of harming
her. Not a hair of her head shal be touched. I don’t believe in the
Bible, but I’m wil ing to swear on it.’ His voice turned sardonic. ‘I’l
even swear it on the Works of Lenin, if that’s an acceptable substitute.
Do you believe me?’
‘I believe you,’ I said. I did, too. There was no comparison between
Kennikin and Slade. I wouldn’t have taken Slade’s word had he sworn on a
thousand bibles, but in this I would accept Kennikin’s lightest word and
trust him as he had once trusted me. I knew and understood Kennikin and
I liked his style; he was a gentleman ? savage, but stil a gentleman.
‘Wel , then; answer my question. Are you in love with her?’
‘We’re going to be married.’
He laughed. ‘That’s not exactly a straight answer, but it wil do.’ He
leaned forward. ‘Do you sleep with her, Alan? When you come to Iceland
do you lie under the stars together and clasp each other’s bodies, and
work at each other until your sweat mingles? Do you cal each other by
names that are sweet and soft and handle each other until that last gust
of passion, that flare of ecstasy in each of you, mutual y quenches the
other and ebbs away into languor? Is that how it is, Alan?’
His voice was purring and cruel. ‘Do you remember our last encounter in
the pine woods when you tried to kil me? I wish you had been a better
shot. I was in hospital in Moscow for a long time while they patched me
up, but there was one patch they couldn’t put back, Alan. And that is
why, if you come out of this alive – and that is something I haven’t yet
decided – you wil be no good to Elin Ragnarsdottir or to any other woman.’
I said, ‘I’d like another drink.’
‘I’l make it stronger this time,’ he said. ‘You look as ‘though you
need it.’ He came across and took my glass, and backed towards the
liquor cupboard. Stil holding the pistol he poured whisky into the
glass and added a little water. He brought it back. ‘You need some
colour in your cheeks,’ he said.
I took the whisky from him. ‘I understand your bitterness – but any
soldier can expect to be wounded; it’s an occupational hazard. What
real y hurts is that you were sold out. That’s it, Vaslav; isn’t it?’
‘That among other things,’ he agreed.
I sampled the whisky; it was strong this time. ‘Where you go wrong is in
your identification of who did it. Who was your boss at that time?’
‘Bakayev ? in Moscow.’
‘And who was my boss?’
He smiled. ‘That eminent British nobleman, Sir David Taggart.’
I shook my head. ‘No. Taggart wasn’t interested; there were bigger fish
to occupy his attention at the time. You were sold out by Bakayev, your
own boss, in col aboration with my boss, and I was just the instrument.’
Kennikin roared with laughter. ‘My dear Alan; you’ve been reading too
much Fleming.’
I said, ‘You haven’t asked who my boss was.’
He was stil shaking with chuckles as he said, ‘All right; who was he?’
‘Slade,’ I said.
The laughter suddenly stopped. I said, ‘It was /very/ careful y planned.
You were sacrificed to give Slade a good reputation. It had to look good
– it had to look very authentic. That’s why you weren’t told. All things
considered, you put up a good fight, but al the time your foundations
were being nibbled away by Bakayev who was passing information to Slade.’
‘This is nonsense, Stewartsen,’ he said; but his face had gone pale and
the livid cicatrice stood out on his cheek.
‘So you failed,’ I said. ‘And, natural y, you had to be punished, or it
stil wouldn’t look right. Yes, we know how your people do things, and
if you hadn’t been sent to Ashkhabad or somewhere like it we’d have been
suspicious. So you spent four years in exile to make it look right; four
years of paper shuffling for doing your duty. You’ve been had, Vaslav.’
His eyes were stony. ‘This Slade I don’t know,’ he said shortly.
‘You ought to. He’s the man you take orders from in Iceland. You thought
it natural, perhaps, that you shouldn’t be in command on this operation.
Your people wouldn’t want to give sole responsibility to a man like
yourself who failed once. A reasonable attitude, you would think; and
maybe you could retrieve your reputation and your honour and aspire to
your former dizzy heights by a successful completion of this mission.’ I
laughed. ‘And who do they give you for a boss? None other than the man
who torpedoed you in Sweden.’
Kennikin stood up. The pistol pointed unwaveringly at my chest. ‘I know
who ruined the Swedish operation,’ he said. ‘And I can touch him from here.’
‘I just took orders,’ I said. ‘Slade did the brainwork. Do you remember
Jimmy Birkby?’
‘I’ve never heard of the man,’ said Kennikin stonily.
‘Of course not. You’d know him better as Sven Hornlund – the man I kil ed.’
‘The British agent,’ said Kennikin. ‘I remember. It was that one act of
yours that made me sure of you.’
‘Slade’s idea,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know who I kil ed. That’s why 1 left
the Department – I had a flaming row.’ I leaned forward. ‘Vaslav, it
fits the pattern, don’t you see that? Slade sacrificed one good man to
make you trust me. It meant nothing to him how many of our agents were
kil ed. But he and Bakayev sacrificed you to make Taggart trust Slade
the more.’
Kennikin’s grey eyes were like stones. His face was quite (stil except
for one corner of his mouth where the scar ran down which twitched with
a slight tic.
I leaned back in the chair and picked up the glass. ‘Slade’s sitting
pretty now. He’s here in Iceland running both sides of an operation. My
God, what a position to be in! But it went wrong when one of the puppets
refused to jump when he pulled the strings. That must have worried the
hel out of him.’
‘I don’t know this man Slade,’ repeated Kennikin woodenly.
‘No? Then why are you al worked up?’ I grinned at him. ‘I’l tel you
what to do. Next time you speak to him why don’t you ask him for the
truth. Not that he’l tel you; Slade never told anyone the truth in his
life. But he might give himself away to such a perceptive person as
yourself.’
Lights flickered through the drawn curtains and there was the sound of a
car pulling up outside. I said, ‘Think of the past, Vaslav; think of the
wasted years in Ashkhabad. Put yourself in the position of Bakayev and
ask yourself which is the more important ? an operation in Sweden which
can be reconstituted at any time, or the chance to put a man high in the
hierarchy of British Intel igence – so high that he lunches with the
British Prime Minister?’
Kennikin moved uneasily and I knew I had got to him. He was deep in
thought and the pistol no longer pointed directly at me. I said, ‘As a
matter of interest, how long did it take to build up another Swedish
outfit? Not long, I’l bet. I daresay Bakayev had an organization
already working in paral el ready to go into action when you dropped out.’
It was a shot at random but it went home. It was like watching a
one-armed bandit come up with the jackpot; the wheels went round and
whirred and clicked and a mental bel rang loud and clear. Kennikin
snorted and turned away. He looked down into the fire and the hand
holding the pistol was down at his side.
I tensed myself, ready to jump him, and said softly, ‘They didn’t trust
you, Vaslav. Bakayev didn’t trust you to wreck your own organization and
make it look good. I wasn’t trusted either; but I was sold out by Slade
who is one of your mob. You’re different; you’ve been kicked in the