Mightier Than the Sword (The Clifton Chronicles 5)

“Not long after your daughter will have won the Hunter Prize Scholarship to the American College of Art, which will be a first for Jefferson Elementary.”

34

HARRY WAS CHECKING his traveler’s checks when the stewardess began her final round, making sure the first-class passengers had fastened their seat belts as the plane began its descent into Leningrad.

“Excuse me,” said Harry. “Do you know when your next flight back to London is?”

“This aircraft has a four-hour turnaround, and is scheduled to return to London at nine ten this evening.”

“That’s a bit rough on you, isn’t it?”

“No,” she said, suppressing a smile. “We always have a stopover in Leningrad. So if you were to return on this evening’s flight, you’d be served by a completely different crew.”

“Thank you,” said Harry. “That’s most helpful.” He looked out of the cabin window to watch Tolstoy’s favorite city looming larger by the second, although he suspected the great author would have been appalled by its change of name. As he heard the hydraulics lowering the wheels into place he wondered if there would be enough time for him to carry out his shopping spree and be back on board before the cabin door was locked.

When the wheels touched the ground, Harry felt a surge of adrenalin he’d only previously experienced when he’d been behind enemy lines during the war. He sometimes forgot that was nearly thirty years ago, when he was a stone lighter and a whole lot nimbler. Well, at least this time he wouldn’t be expected to face a regiment of Germans advancing toward him.

After leaving Mrs. Babakov, he had committed everything she had said to memory. He hadn’t written anything down for fear of someone discovering what he had planned. He had told no one other than Emma the real reason he was visiting Leningrad, although Giles had worked out that he must be going there to collect the book—although “collect” was the wrong verb.

As the plane bumped along the potholed runway he estimated that it would be at least an hour before he cleared customs and was able to convert some sterling into the local currency. In fact, it took an hour and fourteen minutes, despite his only having an overnight bag and exchanging ten pounds for twenty-five rubles. He then had to join the end of a long taxi queue, because the Russians hadn’t quite got the hang of free enterprise.

“The corner of Nevsky Prospekt and Bolshaya Morskaya Street,” he instructed the driver in his native tongue, hoping he would know where it was. All those hours learning Russian, when in truth he would only need a few well-honed phrases, as he intended to be on his way back to England in a few hours, mission completed, as his old commanding officer would say.

During the drive into the city they passed the Yusupov Palace, when Harry’s thoughts turned to Rasputin. The arch manipulator might have enjoyed his little subterfuge. Harry only hoped he wouldn’t end up being poisoned, wrapped in a carpet and then dropped through an ice-hole in the Malaya Nevka river. Harry realized that if he was going to be back at the airport in time to board the 21:10 to Heathrow, he would only have twenty or thirty minutes to spare. But that should be more than enough.

The taxi driver stopped outside an antiquarian bookshop and pointed to the meter. Harry took out a five-ruble note and handed it to him.

“I don’t expect to be long, so would you be kind enough to wait?”

The driver pocketed the note and gave him a curt nod.

The moment Harry stepped inside the shop, he could see why Mrs. Babakov had chosen this particular establishment in which to secrete her treasure. It was almost as if they didn’t want to sell anything. An elderly woman was seated behind the counter, her head in a book. Harry smiled at her, but she didn’t even look up when the bell rang above the door.

He took a couple of books down from a nearby shelf and pretended to peruse them as he edged his way slowly to the back of the shop, his heart beating a little faster with each step he took. Would it still be there? Had someone already bought it, only to discover when they got home that they’d got the wrong book? Had another customer captured the prize and destroyed Uncle Joe for fear they might be caught with it? He could think of a dozen reasons why the three-thousand-mile round trip could turn out to be a wasted journey. But for the moment, hope still triumphed over expectation.

When he finally reached the bookcase on which Mrs. Babakov had said she’d hidden her husband’s work, he closed his eyes and prayed. He opened his eyes to find that Tess of the d’Urbervilles was no longer in its place; just a gap covered with a thin layer of dust between A Tale of Two Cities and Daniel Deronda. Mrs. Babakov had made no mention of Daniel Deronda.

He glanced back toward the counter, to see the old woman turning a page. Standing on tiptoe, he stretched up and eased A Tale of Two Cities off the top shelf, accompanied by a shower of dust that sprinkled down on him. When he opened it, he thought he might have a heart attack, because it was not a copy of Dickens’s work but a slim volume by Anatoly Babakov.

Not wishing to draw attention to his prize, he took two other novels from the same shelf, Greenmantle by John Buchan and Jamaica Inn by Daphne du Maurier, and pretended to browse as he made his way slowly toward the counter. He almost felt guilty interrupting the old woman as he placed the three books on the counter in front of her.

She opened each of them in turn and checked the prices. Mrs. Babakov had even penciled in the price. If she’d turned one more page, he would have been caught. She didn’t. Using her fingers as an adding machine, she said, “Eight rubles.”

Harry handed her two five-ruble notes, having been warned when he was in Moscow for the conference that shopkeepers had to report anyone who attempted to purchase goods with foreign currency and, more important, that they were to refuse the sale and confiscate the money. He thanked her as she handed him his change. By the time he left the shop, she’d turned another page.

“Back to the airport,” said Harry as he climbed into the waiting taxi. The driver looked surprised, but swung obediently around and set out on the return journey.

Harry opened the book once again to check that it hadn’t been an illusion. The thrill of the chase was replaced by a feeling of triumph. He turned to the first page and began reading. All those hours spent studying Russian were finally proving worthwhile. He turned the page.

An early evening traffic jam meant the journey back to the airport took far longer th

an he’d originally anticipated. He began to check his watch every few minutes, fearful that he might miss the plane. By the time the taxi dropped him at the airport, he had reached chapter seven and the death of Stalin’s second wife. He handed another five rubles to the driver and didn’t wait for the change, but ran into the airport and followed the signs for the BOAC counter.

“Can you get me on the nine ten back to London?”

“First or economy?” asked the booking clerk.

“First.”