“Then I might be willing to go as high as a hundred, even a hundred and twenty thousand. But I won’t suggest a figure until they let me know what they have in mind.”

“Well, it beats covering the juvenile courts,” said Kate.

“That’s where I started too,” said Keith. “But the editor didn’t think my efforts were award-winning material, unlike yours, and most of my copy was spiked before he’d finished the first paragraph.”

“Perhaps he wanted to prove that he wasn’t frightened of your father.”

Keith looked across at her, and could see that she was wondering if she had gone too far. “Perhaps,” he replied. “But that was before I took over the Chronicle and was able to sack him.”

Kate remained silent as a stewardess cleared away their trays. “We’re just about to dim the cabin lights,” she said, “but there’s a light above your heads if you wish to carry on reading.”

Keith nodded and flicked on his light. Kate stretched and eased her seat back as far as it would go, covered herself in a blanket and closed her eyes. Keith looked at her for a few moments before opening a fourth file. He read on through the night.

* * *

When Colonel Tulpanov phoned to suggest that he should meet a business associate of his called Yuri Valchek to discuss a matter of mutual interest, Armstrong suggested they have lunch at the Savoy when Mr. Valchek was next in London.

For the past decade Armstrong had been making regular trips to Moscow, and in exchange for the exclusive foreign rights to the works of Soviet scientists he had continued to carry out little tasks for Tulpanov, still able to persuade himself that he wasn’t doing any real harm to his adopted country. This delusion was helped by always letting Forsdyke know when he was making such trips, and occasionally by delivering messages on his behalf, often to return with unfathomable replies. Armstrong realized that both sides considered him to be their man, and suspected that Valchek was not a messenger on a simple errand, but was being sent to find out just how far he could be pushed. By choosing the Savoy Grill, Armstrong hoped to convince Forsdyke that he was hiding nothing from him.

Armstrong arrived at the Savoy a few minutes early, and was guided to his usual alcove table in the corner. He abandoned his favorite whiskey and soda for a vodka, the agreed sign among agents that no English would be spoken. He glanced toward the entrance of the restaurant, and wondered if he would be able to identify Valchek when he walked in. Ten years ago it would have been easy, but he had warned many of the new breed that they stuck out like sore thumbs in their cheap double-breasted suits and thin gravy-stained ties. Since then several of the more regular visitors to London and New York had learned to drop into Savile Row and Fifth Avenue during their visits—though Armstrong suspected that a quick change had to be made on Aeroflot flights when they flew back to Moscow.

Two businessmen strolled into the Grill, deep in conversation. Armstrong recognized one of them, but couldn’t recall his name. They were followed by a stunning young woman with another two men in her wake. A woman having lunch in the Grill was an unusual sight, and he followed her progress as they were guided into the adjoining alcove.

The head waiter interrupted him. “Your guest has arrived, sir.”

Armstrong rose to shake hands with a man who could have passed for a British company director, and who obviously did not need to be told where Savile Row was. Armstrong ordered two vodkas.

“How was your flight?” he asked in Russian.

“Not good, comrade,” replied Valchek. “Unlike you, I have no choice but to fly Aeroflot. If you ever have to, take a sleeping pill, and don’t even think of eating the food.”

Armstrong laughed. “And how is Colonel Tulpanov?”

“General Tulpanov is about to be appointed as the KGB’s number two, and he wants you to let Brigadier Forsdyke know he still outranks him.”

“That will be a pleasure,” said Armstrong. “Are there any other changes at the top that I should know about?”

“Not at the moment.” He paused. “Though I suspect Comrade Khrushchev will not be sitting at the high table for much longer.”

“Then perhaps even you may have to clear your desk,” Armstrong said, staring at him directly.

“Not as long as Tulpanov is my boss.”

“And who will be Khrushchev’s successor?” asked Armstrong.

“Brezhnev would be my bet,” said his visitor. “But as Tulpanov has files on every possible candidate, no one is going to try to replace him.”

Armstrong smiled at the thought that Tulpanov hadn’t lost his touch.

A waiter placed another vodka in front of his guest. “The general speaks highly of you,” said Valchek once the waiter had disappeared, “and no doubt your position will become even more influential when his appointment is made official.” Valchek paused while he checked the menu before making his order in English to a hove

ring waiter. “Tell me,” he continued once the waiter had left them alone, “why does General Tulpanov always refer to you as Lubji?”

“It’s as good a code name as any,” said Armstrong.

“But you are not a Russian.”

“No, I am not,” said Armstrong firmly.

Tags: Jeffrey Archer Thriller
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