Arcadia Read online

  ‘Angela, a long time,’ said Sam Wind. ‘So kind of you to help out. Odd circumstances. How’s your Russian?’

  ‘Good as ever. How’s yours?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Not met him yet. Henry found him,’ Wind replied. ‘I was only told this morning. I was planning to do some gardening. Ah, well. The things we do for our country, eh? With your assistance, we might find out what Henry has dredged up.’

  ‘I didn’t know he still did this sort of thing. I thought he’d given up years ago.’

  ‘He did, but this man wouldn’t trust anyone else. They knew each other during the war, apparently. So the old warhorse came clumping out of retirement to help. He’s in rather a bad mood about it. Not the man I knew once.’

  ‘We all change.’

  ‘You don’t. You look disgracefully well-preserved for a woman of your years. You should be ashamed of yourself. Shall we begin? We can chat afterwards, no doubt. Lot of water under the bridge and so on.’

  We all went in and sat down, and the interrogation of Dimitri Volkov could begin.

  *

  I had done translating on many occasions; it was why initially I had been brought into this world of Henry’s and Wind’s. I had been really good at it; it reached the point where the people I worked for would deliberately look for messages in obscure languages, just to try and find one I didn’t know. Careful experimentation established that I knew few Asian or African languages and my Icelandic was patchy, but apart from that, I could manage nearly all that came my way

  Portmore had asked me to stay on after the war but I had refused even to consider the idea. I’d done my bit, I pointed out, and I was desperate for some peace and quiet. Besides, I wanted to get back to a decent climate and I suspected my little garden in the South of France was so overgrown that, unless I gave it some urgent attention, my house might disappear for ever into the forest.

  It would be strange, though, to see Henry shift back to his old self, no longer the tweedy, slightly abstracted academic, but once more the incisive interrogator, asking carefully thought-out questions, preparing traps several moves ahead, mentally noting every word and gesture, giving as much weight to the unsaid as the said. He had been a natural. His students must be terrified of him.

  *

  A very obedient Volkov had arrived at Oxford station accompanied by his host, who was visibly glad to see the back of him. Lytten was there to collect him; he had very carefully made sure not to tell anyone when he was arriving or where.

  He took a taxi back to his house. Volkov sat quietly beside him as the taxi turned into Beaumont Street, then went north.

  ‘Who am I going to meet?’

  ‘A man called Sam Wind. Are you ready for this?’

  He didn’t seem nervous at the prospect; perfectly calm, in fact. Lytten wasn’t. ‘Be at my house at ten,’ he had told Wind. ‘I have something for you.’

  ‘Really? What?’

  ‘You may find it interesting.’

  But he had said no more. Only to Portmore had he been forthcoming. ‘I’ll bring him to my house for a preliminary interrogation and then hand him over to you.’

  ‘Why not send him straight here?’

  ‘I’m going to ask Sam to come, just to see how he reacts. Kill two birds, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I see. Then be careful how you proceed.’

  *

  Wind was delighted when he arrived and Lytten gave him a quick summary. ‘How wonderful! I’m looking forward to this. If he’s what he says he is then it will be a serious success. Do you have any idea,’ he said, ‘how long it is since we had a decent defector? We just get the dregs these days.’

  ‘Do you want me to stay with you, or would you prefer to talk to him by yourself?’

  ‘Certainly you must be there. He’s yours, after all.’

  Lytten nodded. ‘Bear in mind the problem of understanding him. We talk in German, but that is hardly one of your skills, and not really one of his either. I have asked Angela Meerson to come along to help.’

  ‘Oh, good God! That lunatic.’

  ‘I thought she’d be useful.’

  ‘She always made me feel a bit uncomfortable. What does she do now?’

  ‘Nothing. She lives a simple life. She amuses herself in the usual sort of arty way that women find to pass the hours, I think. Collects all sorts of odd things; some seem to have found a permanent storage place in my cellar. For the most part she lives in France. It is lucky I could get hold of her.’

  Wind glanced around the dingy hallway. ‘Do you never get bored living up here?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Lytten replied with a smile. A slightly sad smile. ‘Why should I? I have my colleagues and my students to keep me entertained, and my friends to keep me on my toes. I know exactly what I will be doing on every day, weeks in advance. All around me is calm and predictable, unless you show up. What more can any man ask? You concern yourself with Armageddon and revolution. I concern myself with whether Hetherington will manage a decent second, and with a few curious lines in As You Like It. I believe firmly that my work is the more important.’

  ‘You’ve changed a great deal, you know.’

  ‘No,’ Henry said. ‘I’m the same. It is the world that has changed. I might put the same point to you. You know this is all a foolish game. I had a policeman here yesterday, Special Branch, all fired up about finding subversives down in the Morris factory. There aren’t any. Even if there were they’d be too incompetent to do anything. So what’s it for?’

  ‘Bombs are real.’

  ‘They are, and will be used or not, whether I do something or sit quietly reading my books. Shall we begin?’

  *

  ‘I think we should start with your telling us the story of your life. Just to get the ball rolling, so to speak …’ That was Wind talking. They were in Lytten’s study, the big room at the front of the house, the room which, had it been a family abode, would have been the drawing room, with its large bay windows, high ceilings and elaborate Victorian fireplace. And books, nearly every wall covered in them, huge piles on the floor and the furniture, disguising the fact that the room had been neither painted nor properly cleaned for many a long year.

  Volkov’s English seemed poor, his German tolerably good, but conversational when precision was badly needed. Angela’s occasional contributions, in contrast, were clipped, efficient and faultless; somehow she managed to provide a translation so well and quickly the others almost forgot she was there.

  ‘I was born on 23rd April 1917 in North Ossetia and I am – or was, rather – a full-time officer in the GRU. I wish to apply for asylum, and I am willing to pay for it with such information as I possess.’

  ‘Why us? Why not the Americans?’

  ‘I approached the Americans last year. I never received any response. I imagine that the crudeness of my approach convinced them that it must have been some sort of trap. So I decided I would have to go through someone who knew me.’

  ‘You will understand, I am sure, that we will assume the same as the Americans.’

  ‘I am quite content to be considered more cunning than I actually am.’

  ‘We will, you realise, become very much more specific later on. For the time being I see no reason why we cannot treat this as a conversation between colleagues.’

  ‘As you wish. I have many stories. Which do you want?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘They are all true.’

  ‘Then tell us them all.’

  ‘Very well. The first is that my career has stalled. So I am defecting out of bitterness and angst. I should have been promoted many times over, to a much higher level than colonel, but have been bested at office politics by people less able than I am. I will, at the appropriate moment, give you the names of those I know in the GRU hierarchy, what they do and how they do it, in order to have my revenge.’

  ‘That is a good reason.’

  ‘No. It is not,’ Volkov said. ‘Many people are in that
position, no? I imagine even MI6 has office politics, with winners and losers. Do you worry every time someone is promoted that the losers will run off to the Soviet Union? Of course not. That is no reason. Anyone who came to you with such a story would either be a fool or a liar.’

  ‘Give us another one.’

  ‘Love. In the 1930s I fell in love with a beautiful woman, funny, intelligent, delightful. She was everything to me. We were to be married. Except that one day she said the wrong thing to the wrong person. She disappeared. I had to pretend not to know her. I married someone else, but I have never forgiven them.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No you don’t. That happened nearly twenty years ago. Who would wait such a long time? A third reason, then. I have lost faith. I do not believe in the onward inevitability of history. I do not believe that the proletariat will triumph. To put it another way, if the Soviet Union is the ultimate expression of mankind’s future, then I want no part of it.’

  He smiled faintly. ‘A good reason, no? One which appeals to you, as patriotic Englishmen? You may take that one, then. It is true, after all. So is this: I am getting old, I wish to do something worthwhile, so the world, if it remembers me, will think favourably of me. I have no God and no beliefs. I can only serve the future. I wish to give a gift to the future. You are the only people who can make use of it.’

  He leaned forward. ‘There is danger coming. I know. Time is short.’

  ‘Go on. Astonish us.’

  Volkov pointed at Angela. ‘Not with her in the room. You I trust, Henry, and you, Wind, I must trust. But not this woman. I do not know her.’

  ‘Angela?’ Wind asked. ‘Would you mind stepping out? If you could stay in the house, though, in case we get ourselves into a tangle?’

  ‘Certainly,’ she replied, and stood up. ‘Mr Volkov. Such a pleasure. Delighted to meet you. I do hope you settle down nicely here.’ She turned to the two Englishmen. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen making sandwiches if you need me. And,’ she said cocking her head as the doorbell rang, ‘answering the door for you. What a busy life you lead, Henry.’

  *

  When she had left the room, Volkov smiled and tapped the side of his head with an exaggerated gesture. ‘In here, my friends. In here, I have such secrets.’

  ‘Feel free to share some,’ Wind said.

  They kept talking for an hour in a mixture of poor German and halting English, then took a break. Wind and Lytten left Volkov and retreated into Lytten’s dingy hallway.

  ‘Well?’ Lytten said, after Wind had gone quickly into the kitchen to see if he could get Angela to make him some tea. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘If what he says is true, then we have a major coup and everyone else has a major crisis. True or false, the best thing would be to pass this on to the Americans and let them get on with it. They’re in charge, after all,’ he said gloomily.

  For an hour Wind had lounged on the armchair, looking slightly bored, occasionally interrupting with a vague or sarcastic question. For the most part, though, he had left the questioning to Lytten. But the moment the door of the sitting room had closed, the air of studied disinterest vanished, to be replaced by a thoughtful, alert look.

  Calmly, giving details and dates, names and places, Volkov had blown the West’s strategic thinking out of the water. Everything, he said, was wrong. The Soviet Union was not far behind in the development of ballistic missiles, as was thought. The Soviet high command did not assume the West intended no hostile move. They were frightened and had decided to hit out first. All that was needed was to complete their preparations – complete, Volkov said; he was very insistent on this point. A few weeks, he said. In a few weeks’ time they would be ready.

  ‘Could the Americans have got it all so wrong?’ Lytten asked.

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ Wind said. ‘It can be checked, easily enough. It’s the rest which bothered me.’

  Lytten could see his point. Once Angela had left the room, Volkov had leant forward in his chair. ‘There is a traitor among you,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘Do you want to know who it is? I can tell you.’

  Then he had refused to say any more. Knowledge has its price, he had said. How much did they want to know? Make an offer, and then he would tell them all they needed. All in good time.

  ‘Do you think he’s a fake?’

  ‘Of course he’s a fake,’ Wind replied, although Lytten could hear the doubt in his voice. ‘Trying to get a nice pension off us. Trying to make us look ridiculous to the Americans. Or he’s a plant, a walking piece of disinformation.’

  Wind looked suddenly haggard. ‘I’d better have him anyway. Cart him off and give him a good going over, and perhaps suggest to the Americans that we may have a problem of one sort or another. Either what Volkov says is true, which is catastrophic, or the Russians are playing a game which is so clever I can’t even understand the rules.’ He sighed. ‘Who was at the door?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I’ll get my people ready to take Volkov away. I’ll call the van. I’ll tell Angela we won’t be wanting the tea after all.’

  35

  There are many ceremonies at Ossenfud, and Jay had taken part in a good proportion of them. For the dead time, the start of the year, the start and end of study each day, the arrival of food. Ceremonies for each season, and for the harvest. Each college had its own rituals and the town had still more.

  But he had never witnessed anything quite as strange as the one he observed that day in Willdon. Shortly before noon Jay was summoned by a messenger and instructed to present himself at the entrance to the great courtyard. He took up his position just in time to see the huge doors leading into the grand chamber being thrown open. Henary was there already. A procession, gaudy and ostentatious, slowly emerged, consisting of all the people who lived and worked in the house, some of them carrying Lady Catherine on an elaborate gilt chair. Trumpets sounded, the watchers stamped their feet. It was, for Jay, a fascinating display of power and wealth, not least because Lady Catherine herself was dressed with all the magnificence of her position, covered in jewels from head to foot, wearing the richest garments imaginable and her finest wig.

  They proceeded to the edge of the gardens, with Jay, Henary and many others following. Waiting for them was a small party, roughly dressed and looking decidedly uncomfortable and nervous. The jumpiest was a man carrying a large axe, who was dressed in brown working clothes, with heavy leather boots.

  ‘Who are you?’ he called out in a loud voice, once he had been elbowed in the ribs by a companion as a prompt.

  The procession stopped and the golden chair was laid on the ground. Lady Catherine stood up and walked a few steps forward as her entourage fell back to make way for her.

  ‘I am Lady Catherine, Lord and Lady of the domain of Willdon by right, and I command your obedience.’ She spoke imperiously, disdainfully.

  ‘That is the wrong answer.’

  Two of the other men with him stepped forward and began taking off the jewellery, starting with the huge tiara she wore on her head, then her necklaces, the encrusted belts, the rings on fingers and toes, until she wore no decoration at all. She stood there passively and allowed all this to happen. Each article was handed carefully to an attendant, who placed them carefully in a large wooden box.

  ‘Who are you?’ The question came again.

  ‘I am Lady Catherine of Willdon, and I demand your obedience.’

  ‘That is the wrong answer.’

  Again the three men stepped forward, and this time started taking off the wig, the multi-coloured velvets and cloths which adorned her body, until she was standing in a simple dress.

  ‘Who are you?’ came the question for the third time.

  ‘I am Lady Catherine of Willdon.’

  ‘That is the wrong answer.’

  For a third time the men stepped forward. They removed her dress, so that she was wearing only the least of undergarments. Then they pushed her down so she was
kneeling on the bare ground, her head bowed.

  ‘No man or woman is above any man or woman. Three times you have denied this.’

  The man with the axe, now trembling, stepped forward, carrying a length of leather. He walked up to her and, biting his lip, swung the strap down onto her back, so that the impact could be heard all over the glade. He did not do it so very hard, however. Jay noticed that he attempted to make the lash as light as possible. Still, he repeated the operation twice, and there were three distinct red lines across her back when he had finished. Lady Catherine did not flinch.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Kate.’

  ‘That is the right answer. What do you have?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to live.’

  ‘What will you give in return?’

  ‘What I am asked.’

  ‘Then you will be the least of people, until you have earned the right to be more. Do you accept this?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then stand up, Kate, and follow me.’

  She stood and dusted herself down, and Jay could see the broad man whispering anxiously into her ear. He didn’t hear it, but he thought he was asking – was that all right? She nodded briefly, and a second man came forward and dressed her in the rough clothes of a labourer, and gave her a pair of hard shoes with wooden soles.

  ‘Anyone who wishes to see that I obey the laws and customs of Willdon should step forward now,’ the man said.

  There was a silence, apart from a rustling of clothes as the assembled multitude looked around expectantly. Then Jay realised Lady Catherine was looking at him. He stepped forward.

  ‘I wish to see,’ he said.