Mightier Than the Sword (The Clifton Chronicles 5)

“Window or aisle?”

“Window, please.”

“Six A,” she said, handing him a ticket.

It amused Harry that he would be flying back in the same seat he’d occupied for the incoming flight.

“Do you have any luggage to check in, sir?”

“No, just this,” he said, holding up his bag.

“The flight is due to take off shortly, sir, so it might be wise to make your way through to customs.”

Harry wondered how many times a day she delivered that particular line. He was happy to obey her suggestion and, as he passed a bank of telephones, his thoughts turned to Emma and Mrs. Babakov, but he would have to wait until he was back in London before he could tell them the news.

He was only a couple of strides away from passport control when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned to find two heavily built young policemen standing on either side of him.

“Would you come with me,” said one of the officers, confident that Harry spoke Russian.

“Why?” asked Harry. “I’m on my way back to London and I don’t want to miss my flight.”

“We just need to check your bag. If there are no irregularities, you’ll have more than enough time to catch your flight.”

Harry prayed they were looking for drugs, cash, or contraband, as they gripped him firmly by the arm and led him away. He considered making a dash for it. Perhaps twenty years ago …

The policemen stopped outside an unmarked door, unlocked it, and shoved Harry inside. The door slammed behind him and he heard a key turning in the lock. He looked around the room. A small table, two chairs, and no windows. Nothing on the walls other than a large black and white photograph of Comrade Brezhnev, chairman of the party.

Moments later, he heard the key turning in the lock again. Harry already had half a story prepared about having come to St. Petersburg to visit the Hermitage. The door opened and a man entered. The sight of this tall, elegantly dressed officer caused Harry to feel apprehensive for the first time. He was wearing a dark green uniform with three gold stars on his epaulets and too many medals on his chest to suggest that he might be easily intimidated. Two very different men followed him in, whose appearance seemed to disprove Darwin’s theory of evolution.

“Mr. Clifton, my name is Colonel Marinkin and I am the officer in charge of this investigation. Please open your bag.” Harry unzipped the bag and stood back. “Place all the contents on the table.”

Harry took out his wash bag, a pair of pants, a pair of socks, a cream shirt, just in case he had to stay overnight, and three books. The colonel only seemed interested in the books, which he studied for a few moments before placing two of them back on the table.

“You may pack your bag, Mr. Clifton.”

Harry let out a long sigh as he returned his belongings to the bag. At least the whole exercise hadn’t been a complete waste of time. He knew the book existed, and he’d even read seven chapters, which he would write out on the plane.

“Are you aware of what this book is?” asked the colonel, holding it up.

“A Tale of Two Cities,” said Harry, “among my favorites but not considered to be Dickens’s masterpiece.”

“Don’t play games with me,” said Marinkin. “We are not the complete fools you arrogant English take us for. This book, as you well know, is Uncle Joe by Anatoly Babakov, which you have been trying to get hold of for some years. Today you almost succeeded. You planned everything down to the finest detail. First you visit Mrs. Babakov in Pittsburgh to learn where she had hidden the book. On returning to Bristol, you brush up on your Russian, even impressing your tutor with your grasp of our language. You then fly to Leningrad just a few days before your visa is due to expire. You enter the country carrying only an overnight bag, the contents of which suggest you didn’t plan even to stay overnight, and you change just ten pounds into rubles. You ask a taxi driver to take you to an obscure antiquarian bookshop in the center of the city. You purchase three books, two of which you could have picked up in any bookshop in England. You ask the driver to take you back to the airport and you check yourself in on the next flight home, even the same seat. Who do you imagine you’re fooling? No, Mr. Clifton, your luck has run out, and I am placing you under arrest.”

“On what charge?” asked Harry. “Buying a book?”

“Save it for the trial, Mr. Clifton.”

“Would those passengers traveling to London on BOAC flight number…”

* * *

“There’s a Mr. Bishara on line three,” said Rachel. “Shall I put him through?”

“Yes,” said Seb, then placed a hand over the mouthpiece and asked his two colleagues if they could leave him for a few minutes.

“Mr. Clifton, I think it’s time we had another game of backgammon.”

“I’m not sure I can afford it.”