“Or double-bluffing.”

“Am I safe to take a couple of hours off?” asked Virginia. “There’s something I need to do.”

“Why not? I can’t see the jury returning before this afternoon.”

45

HARRY HADN’T EXPECTED a chauffeur-driven car to take him to the airport, and he was even more surprised when he saw who the chauffeur was.

“I just want to make sure you get on the plane,” said Colonel Marinkin.

“How very considerate of you, colonel,” said Harry, forgetting to remain in character.

“Don’t get clever with me, Mr. Clifton. The railway station is closer than the airport, and it’s not too late for you to join Babakov on a journey that won’t have a return ticket for another twelve years.”

“But I signed the confession,” said Harry, trying to sound conciliatory.

“Which I know you’ll be glad to hear has already been released to every leading newspaper in the West from the New York Times to the Guardian. It will have hit most of their front pages before you touch down at Heathrow, so even if you did try to deny it—”

“I can assure you, colonel, that, unlike St. Peter, there will be no need for me to deny anything. I saw Babakov for what he was. And in any case, an Englishman’s word is his bond.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said the colonel, as he accelerated on to the motorway and put his foot hard down. Within seconds the indicator was touching a hundred miles an hour. Harry clung on to the dashboard as the colonel nipped in and out of the traffic, and for the first time since he’d set foot in Russia, Harry was genuinely frightened. As they passed the Hermitage, the colonel couldn’t resist asking, “Have you ever visited the Hermitage, Mr. Clifton?”

“No,” said Harry, “but I’ve always wanted to.”

“Pity, because now you never will,” said the colonel as he overtook a couple of lorries.

Harry only began to relax when the airport terminal came into sight, and the colonel slowed to sixty. He hoped his plane would take off before the first editions hit the streets, otherwise he might still be on that train to Siberia, and as he couldn’t hope to get through customs for at least a couple of hours, it might be a close-run thing.

Suddenly the car swung off the road, through a gate held open by two guards, and drove onto a runway. The colonel dodged in and out of the stationary aircraft, with much the same abandon with which he had treated the cars on the motorway. He screeched to a halt at the bottom of an aircraft’s steps, where two guards, who had clearly been waiting for him, sprang to attention and saluted even before he’d got out of the car. Marinkin leaped out, and Harry followed him.

“Don’t let me hold you up,” said the colonel. “Just be sure you never come back, because if you do, I’ll be at the bottom of the steps waiting for you.” They didn’t shake hands.

Harry walked up the staircase as quickly as he could, knowing he wouldn’t feel safe until the plane had taken off. When he reached the top step the senior steward came forward and said, “Welcome aboard, Mr. Clifton. Let me take you to your seat.” Clearly he was expected. The steward guided him to the back row of first class, and Harry was relieved to find the seat next to him was empty. No sooner had he sat down than the aircraft door was slammed shut and the seat belt sign switched on. He still wasn’t quite ready to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Is there anything I can get you once we’ve taken off, Mr. Clifton?” asked the steward.

“How long is the flight?”

“Five and a half hours, including a stopover in Stockholm.”

“A strong black coffee, no sugar, two pens, and as much writing paper as you can spare. And could you let me know the moment we’re no longer in Russian airspace?”

“Of course, sir,” said the steward, as if he got this sort of request every day.

Harry closed his eyes and tried to concentrate as the plane began to taxi to the far end of the runway in preparation for take-off. Anatoly had explained to him that he knew the book off by heart, and had spent the past sixteen years repeating it to himself again and again in the hope that one day he would be released, when it could be published.

As soon as the seat belt sign had been switched off, the steward returned and handed Harry a dozen sheets of BOAC writing paper and two ballpoint pens.

“I’m afraid that won’t be enough for the first chapter,” said Harry. “Can you keep up a regular supply?”

“I’ll do my best,” said the steward. “And will you be hoping to catch a couple of hours’ sleep during the flight?”

“Not if I can possibly avoid it.”

“Then may I suggest you leave your reading light on, so when the cabin lights are dimmed, you can go on working.”

“Thank you.”

Tags: Jeffrey Archer The Clifton Chronicles Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net