“But you are also not English, comrade?”
“I’m more English than the English,” replied Armstrong, which seemed to silence his guest. A plate of smoked salmon was placed in front of him.
Valchek had finished his first course, and was cutting into a rare steak before he began to reveal the real purpose of his visit.
“The National Science Institute want to publish a book commemorating their achievements in space exploration,” he said, after selecting a Dijon mustard. “The chairman feels that President Kennedy is receiving far too much credit for his NASA program when, as everyone knows, it was the Soviet Union that put the first man in space. We have prepared a document detailing the achievements of our program from the founding of the Space Academy to the present day. I am in possession of a 200,000-word manuscript compiled by the leading scientists in the field, over a hundred photographs taken as recently as last month, and detailed diagrams and specifications for Luna IV and V.”
Armstrong made no attempt to stop Valchek’s flow. The messenger had to be aware that such a book would be out of date even before it was published. Clearly there had to be another reason why he had traveled all the way from Moscow to have lunch with him. But his guest chatted on, adding more and more irrelevant details. Finally he asked Armstrong for his opinion of the project.
“How many copies does General Tulpanov expect to be printed?”
“One million in hardback, to be distributed through the usual channels.”
Armstrong doubted whether such a book would have a worldwide readership of even a fraction of that figure. “But my print costs alone…” he began.
“We fully understand the risks you would be taking with such a publication. So we will be advancing you a sum of five million dollars, to be distributed among those countries in which the book will be translated, published and sold. Naturally there will be an agent’s commission of 10 percent. I should add that it will come as no great surprise to General Tulpanov if the book does not appear on any best-seller list. Just as long as you are able to show in your annual report that a million copies were printed, he will be content. It’s the distribution of the profits that really matters,” added Valchek, sipping his vodka.
“Is this to be a one-off?” asked Armstrong.
“If you make a success of this—” Valchek paused before choosing the right word “—project, we would want a paperback edition to be published a year later, which we of course appreciate would require a further advance of five million. After that there might have to be reprints, revised versions…”
“Thus ensuring a continuous flow of currency to your operatives in every country where the KGB has a presence,” said Armstrong.
“And as our representative,” said Valchek, ignoring the comment, “you will receive 10 percent of any advance. After all, there is no reason why you should be treated differently from any normal literary agent. And I’m confident that our scientists will be able to produce a new manuscript that is worthy of publication every year.” He paused. “Just as long as their royalties are always paid on time and in whichever currency we require.”
“When do I get to see the manuscript?” asked Armstrong.
“I have a copy with me,” Valchek replied, lowering his eyes to the briefcase by his side. “If you agree to be the publisher, the first five million will be paid into your account in Liechtenstein by the end of the week. I understand that is how we’ve always conducted business with you in the past.”
Armstrong nodded. “I’ll need a second copy of the manuscript to give to Forsdyke.”
Valchek raised an eyebrow as his plate was whisked away.
“He has an agent seated on the far side of the room,” said Armstrong. “So you should hand over the manuscript just before we leave, and I’ll walk out with it under my arm. Don’t worry,” he continued, sensing Valchek’s anxiety. “He knows nothing about publishing, and his department will probably spend months searching for coded messages among the Sputniks.”
Valchek laughed, but made no attempt to look across the room as the dessert trolley was wheeled over to their table, but simply stared at the three tiers of extravagances before him.
In the silence that followed, Armstrong caught a single word drifting across from the next table—“presses.” He began to listen in to the conversation, but then Valchek asked him for his opinion of a young Czech called Havel, who had recently been put in jail.
“Is he a politician?”
“No, he’s a…”
Armstrong put a finger to his lips to indicate that his colleague should continue talking but shouldn’t expect an answer. The Russian needed no lessons in this particular deceit.
Armstrong concentrated on the three people seated in the adjoining alcove. The thin, softly-spoken man with his back to him could only be an Australian, but although the accent was obvious, Armstrong could hardly pick up a word he was saying. Next to him sat the young woman who had so distracted him when she first entered the room. At a guess, he would have said she was mid-European, and had probably originated not that far from his own birthplace. On her right, facing the Australian, was a man with an accent from the north of England and a voice that would have delighted his old regimental sergeant major. The word “confidential” had obviously never been fully explained to him.
As Valchek continued talking softly in Russian, Armstrong removed a pen from his pocket and began to jot down the odd word on the back of the menu—not an easy exercise, unless you have been taught by a master of the profession. Not for the first time, he was thankful for Forsdyke’s expertise.
“John Shuttleworth, WRG chairman” were the first words he scribbled down, and a moment later, “owner.” Some time passed before he added “Huddersfield Echo” and the names of six other papers. He stared into Valchek’s eyes and continued to concentrate, then scribbled down four more words: “Leeds, tomorrow, twelve o’clock.” While his coffee went cold there followed “120,000 fair price.” And finally “factories closed for some time.”
When the subject at the next table turned to cricket, Armstrong felt that although he had several pieces of a jigsaw in place, he now needed to return to his office as soon as possible if he was to have any hope of completing the picture before twelve o’clock the following day. He checked his watch, and despite having only just been served with a second helping of bread and butter pudding, he called for the bill. When it appeared a few moments later, Valchek removed a thick manuscript from his briefcase and handed it ostentatiously across the table to his host. Once the bill had been settled, Armstrong rose from his place, tucked the manuscript under his arm and talked to Valchek in Russian as they strolled past the next alcove. He glanced at the woman, and thought he detected a look of relief on her face when she heard them speaking in a foreign language.
When they reached the door, Armstrong passed a pound note to the head waiter. “An excellent lunch, Mario,” he said. “And thank you for seating such a stunning young woman in the next booth.”
“My pleasure, sir,” said Mario, pocketing the money.
“Dare I ask what name the table was booked in?”