Shard Calls the Tune Read online

  His aim was good: the rock with its message zoomed in through the open window, and the face disappeared. So did Shard, putting distance between himself and the crowd of protesting Jews. It wouldn’t do to get himself arrested for making a political protest.

  Now, it was up to luck.

  *

  Across much land and some sea in Malta, Hedge palpitated; the shoulder-holster was now moving away from the bar and towards his table, easily and nonchalantly, and the wearer of it was smiling a rather cold smile. American he might be, but he didn’t look entirely friendly and Hedge wished desperately that he could place him, but he still couldn’t. In his line, of course, one met many people.

  The man stopped and spoke.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Well —”

  “Many thanks. I get kind of lonesome.” He sat down.

  Hedge cleared his throat and said, “There are plenty of other Americans here.”

  “I know. Sure, I know! Which is why I said to myself, there’s a Britisher … I get kind of tired of my own countrymen sometimes. They’re loud and brash.” The American grinned. “See the guy with the flag on his bum?”

  “Yes, I did. Poor taste, very.”

  “That’s right. The British may be down, but there’s no need to do that to them, is there?”

  “None at all.” Hedge fidgeted with his empty glass; he didn’t want to buy the American a drink, and decided he wouldn’t; he wasn’t a rich man and current economies were making the Foreign Office very mean on expenses. The American didn’t seem to mind, and evidently had an economical outlook of his own: he had brought an empty glass with him and now proceeded to pour whisky into it from a flask.

  “Cheaper than the Phoenicia’s prices,” he said. “Also, it’s rye. Try some.”

  “Er —”

  The flask hovered over Hedge’s glass and a little rye was poured.

  “That’s very decent of you, I must say.”

  “Think nothing of it, sir, think nothing of it. Uncle Sam pays.” The eyes seemed to bore right into Hedge. “Get me, do you?”

  Something clicked nastily. “I — I’m not sure that I do really, and yet …”

  “Guess they call you Fence. Or was it Hedge?”

  “Really, I’d rather you didn’t —”

  “Okay, okay, I won’t. I understand fully. I’m Gloster B. Hockaway and I don’t give a fish’s tit who knows it. Press. New York Times.”

  Hedge had an idea he was no such thing, though he could have been — Hedge had often enough come up against the Press and didn’t like any of them. He said disparagingly, “Really.”

  Gloster B. Hockaway gave a wink and bent closer. “Cover. Just cover. We met at the Pentagon — all of three years ago. Recall it?”

  Blinding light flashed. “Yes, I do! CIA. I forget the name.”

  “The name doesn’t matter, call me Gloster. I won’t name any more names, but I guess both you and me, we’re here for the same purpose.”

  “Really.”

  “That’s my reckoning, Mr Hedge —”

  “Please —”

  “Okay, okay, point taken and fully appreciated. We forget all about all names from now on out. But take warning just the same. Our friend’s mine. Okay?”

  Hedge snapped, “No, not okay at all. I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “I guess you know, all right,” the American said with confidence. “He’s ours. So just lay off. The destination’s not London, it’s Washington.”

  “This is nothing whatever to do with the United States!” Hedge was in a tizzy now. “We received the information. In fact I may say that I did. Personally.”

  “So did we.”

  “You, personally?”

  “No. The White House.”

  “From whom?” Hedge dabbed at streaming sweat; this was really too bad.

  “Pressmen,” Gloster B. Hockaway said with a grin, “do not reveal their sources.”

  Hedge snapped, “There’s no need to carry on with that act. As to your purpose, kindly remember that I represent Her Majesty’s Government, and I propose to do my duty.”

  The American agent nodded. “Very, very British. Like Nelson. I appreciate that. It’s in character. But this time, you do it at your peril, and by peril I mean peril. Get me?”

  With dignity Hedge said, “No, I certainly don’t ‘get’ you, and I shall cable Whitehall via our High Commission and ask for instructions. It may be that I shall be ordered to place you under arrest —”

  “In Malta?”

  “Or have you repatriated.”

  “I say again, from Malta? You noticed that the British flag waves no more from whatsit, the Castile?”

  “Don’t be impertinent.”

  “And don’t you be purblind. My instructions are, to leave no stone unturned, to balk at nothing. Now, that leaves me with a very wide discretion indeed, and if it means you get lead up the bum, why, then you get lead up the bum —”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Hedge said, his eyes round, angry, and, despite his tones of outraged dignity, fearful. One never knew with Americans, they were utterly unreliable and had no tradition of gentlemanliness, and they were extraordinarily hot-headed and — yes — trigger-happy. “You simply wouldn’t dare!”

  Once more, the American grinned. “Maybe yes, maybe no. Depends which way the cookie crumbles. All I say is — watch it. Okay?” He got up, his rye finished, and walked away towards the dining-room. Hedge shook with anger, fright, disappointment and offence. Lead up the bum! What an expression. The man would never go that far, of course … then Hedge recalled some more. The CIA man had been the subject of sotto voce talk in the Pentagon. It had been said that he had killed in Cuba, or was it Argentina? The country didn’t matter, the deed did. He had killed a fellow CIA man who had looked like getting his hands on someone he wanted for himself — an exactly parallel situation! Sweat streamed from Hedge’s face and down his neck, unchecked. The awful deed of murder had been got away with — but very possibly the whole thing was nothing but hearsay, and unsubstantiated. Hedge very much hoped so. In any case, one thing seemed to have emerged loud and clear now: Kolotechin really was coming, and was coming right here to Malta. It was something to know that.

  The High Commissioner must have had his head in the sand. Hedge clicked his tongue; it was really top bad — no co-operation whatsoever!

  Hedge dined, and dined well, feeling grateful to the Foreign Office for not after all consigning him to a pension in the heart of Valetta, where the smells of goat and teeming Maltese fife might well have asphyxiated him. Of course, they’d had their reasons: Malta was not Naples and substantial-looking Britons, who once ruled the island, would have looked more out of place in a cheap hostelry than in the Phoenicia where all the wealthier tourists stayed and which was nicely cosmopolitan. Fed and wined — chicken with tarragon and brandy, followed by peaches in red wine, then some excellent Stilton, the whole washed down with a fine red Prémeaux — Hedge went out into the balmy night air, to walk, stretch his legs and observe what there was to observe in the line of duty. There was not in fact much, but he walked rather a long way, farther than he had intended, and he managed to get himself lost in what was presumably Valetta. It was all steep streets cut into steps, and bars, and fairly obvious brothels, and flitting, shadowy priests with eyes downcast in case they should espy sin and be tempted. And it was stiflingly hot; Hedge was wet with sweat as he ploughed on. He asked the way back to the Phoenicia but got lost again and found himself back in the sleazy streets with the bars. Strada Stretta, read the legend on a wall at the top of one stepped thoroughfare; Hedge did not know this, but Strada Stretta had been familiar to generations of seamen of the British Mediterranean Fleet as The Gut, and much vice and many murders had it seen in times past. Hedge plunged down it and suddenly feeling very thirsty entered an establishment called the Queen Elizabeth Bar, which sounded patriotic and safe. He asked for a large whisky once he had pushed thr
ough the crowd and reached the bar, and was forced to drink it standing up, and lost some of it when an elbow thrust rudely into his backbone and jolted him. He swallowed his anger; a protest might have led to trouble. Inside, the Queen Elizabeth Bar didn’t look as safe and solid as the name had suggested; that was, the customers didn’t. They were a mixture of greasy Maltese, some foreign sailors from ships of various nationalities that had replaced the British Navy, and some tourists of the lower classes, not Phoenicia material. They could turn nasty, and he was standing out like a sore thumb. He sweated more than ever and felt the onset of panic. He had been foolish to come down into the low quarter of the town, very foolish. Finishing the whisky, he began to shove his way through for the door, but met a brick wall in the shape of a strong, squat girl whose breasts were virtually naked and which were now thrust at him suggestively.

  “Excuse me,” he said, and tried to dodge aside, but couldn’t.

  “Want a good time, love?” the squat girl asked, smiling and wriggling her breasts.

  “No, thank you.” Hedge breathed hard, feeling trapped.

  “Come on, the missus won’t ever know. Only five quid, that’s for a short time.” The eyes searched his face, hopefully. “Got a place to go, have you?”

  “No!” Hedge said desperately. “No, I haven’t!”

  “All right, don’t take on, if you don’t want it, you don’t, that’s all. There’s plenty what do, and plenty what prefer me to a Maltese woman.”

  “You’re not a Maltese, then?” Hedge asked, simply because he was unable to move hand or foot in the mob and felt obliged to say something or the girl might knife him.

  She gave a scream of laughter. “Maltese, not me, love! I come from Birmingham. Had me cash nicked, didn’t I, so I have to recoup to pay for me holiday.”

  “Yes, I see. Can you get me out of here?” She was built like a tank and could cleave a path for him. “I’ll — er — make it worth your while.”

  The eyes gleamed. “Five quid?”

  “Oh, all right.”

  The girl swivelled, reached a strong hand behind her, and grasped Hedge’s lapel. She pulled like a horse in harness, and dragged Hedge clear. At the door, fresh air smote a welcome. Hedge brought out his wallet and gave her the five pounds, which vanished somewhere up her skirt. “Thanks,” she said, and then Hedge was free. He went outside, breathing deep. Never again! He climbed the steps, back the way he had come. There were fights in all the upstairs windows above him, and most outlined a woman, waiting for prey like a fat, dark spider. What a place! Hedge hurried on, small feet twinkling, handkerchief busily mopping sweat. At the top of the steps he looked down, puffing out his cheeks. As he did so, a familiar figure was seen clearly in the fight from a brothel window before it nipped aside into shadow. The American from the Phoenicia! Hedge palpitated, feeling quite shocked. This was not done between allies, and he much disliked being followed. If the American was going to follow him everywhere, presumably in case he led to Kolotechin, how was he ever to bring off his mission? And possibly — a dreadful thought — the man was not an American at all! Hedge walked away fast, shaking like a leaf, convincing himself of the worst. It was true he half remembered the man in the Pentagon, but he’d never really known him and this might be an impersonation. Even the fact that the man had known him could be accounted for: they might have met, but even the Pentagon, say what it liked about its security, wasn’t wholly spy-proof, nowhere ever was. The man might be here in Malta to intercept Kolotechin and take him back under arrest to Russia, condemned by his own act of defection. In which case the man very likely would shoot Hedge. Feeling his life to be in imminent danger, Hedge found a gharry and instructed its driver to take him post-haste to the British High Commission.

  5

  That same night, Shard made his way to the Sokolniki Park, a place he had used before as a rendezvous. Paths radiated from a circle just inside the gate from Rusakovskaya Ulitsa; Shard took the third from the left. There were benches set back to back. He sat on the third bench along, and waited. There was an air of peace. It was not yet dark; couples drifted, not too close together in case police morality should be outraged, some of them moon-eyed, some in apparently deep discussion, no doubt of production norms and growth targets and agricultural development. Men and women passed on their own, casting glances at the figures on the bench but without much interest. The wait was not a long one although Shard had been five minutes early. A man approached, tall and skinny, emaciated, wearing a dark, baggy-trousered suit and an old-fashioned trilby hat, grey in colour. The suit and shoes apart, the whole man looked grey: grey hat, grey shirt, grey socks, grey hair — prematurely grey, and now convict-shaven — grey face, long and sensitive. Goronwy Hughes-Jones; it had to be. It fitted the description and the photographs; and it was. Glances were exchanged and Hughes-Jones sat down on the twin bench with his back to Shard. He opened a copy of Pravda; Shard heard the rustle of the pages.

  Shard spoke first, leaning back with his eyes closed against the last of the day’s fight. “Well done,” he said. “Tail, or not?”

  “I expect so,” came the whisper. “There’s the risk. Who are you?”

  “Never mind that for now. Let’s just say I’m British, I’m a friend, and glad to see you released.” Shard was keeping his voice down; if there was a tail he would be behind a bush somewhere, probably within earshot. The only sign would be bush movement.

  Hughes-Jones said, “Your message. It was to do with my wife.”

  “Yes. I’ll come to that in a moment. First things first. Your life’s in extreme danger.”

  There was a laugh. “No, no, it is not.”

  “I beg to differ, on account of intelligence received from certain high quarters. When the Foreign Secretary leaves Moscow, you will be re-arrested and executed. Or your death could happen earlier, and be a street killing rather than an official execution. You must leave Russia the soonest possible.”

  “Fantasy!”

  Shard watched the nearer bushes. There was some movement, but it was a general one, for a coldish wind had come up to shake the leaves and branches, and all at once the park had become a less friendly place. He said, “Not fantasy, friend. Fact. I’m very reliably informed. I’m here to take you out.”

  “Your informant may believe I’m in danger. I do not. You’ve wasted your time. I intend staying in Russia. I’ve been well treated, and I’ve learned a good deal about Communism. They’ll keep their promises, I assure you.”

  “You sound confident.”

  “I am. I trust what they tell me. Now about my wife?”

  Breath hissed between Shard’s teeth: the man was stupidly obstinate, sounding adamant about staying in Russia. Shard gave him the news straight; it just might shake his resolve. He said, “Your wife is having an affair.”

  There was no immediate response; Shard had the idea the news was not wholly unexpected. After a while Hughes-Jones asked in a low voice, “Who?”

  “A man named Evan Evans, a branch manager for the Western District Building Society in Pentreteg.”

  “That man!”

  “You know him?”

  “Oh yes, I know him.”

  “You sound … not surprised?”

  There was another pause. “I am not surprised, no. Years ago I suspected, but I held my peace, you see, because I had no actual knowledge. How true is what you say? Are you to be trusted?”

  Shard said, “It’s true all right. If I were you, I’d think about it. It could be that your presence back home would help — and I repeat, you’re in great danger every moment you remain here.”

  “I do not believe that,” Hughes-Jones said. “Nor do I believe my presence in Pentreteg would help. And now it is nearly sunset, and I must leave the park, and so must you if you don’t want to be arrested.” The Welshman got to his feet and walked back along the path towards the Rusakovskaya Ulitsa gate. He walked slowly and with dignity, his thin shoulders bowed as though in great sorrow. Shard felt s
ympathy for him; he had had a blow, but his resolve, however misplaced, had not been shaken, neither had his spirit. This whole mission seemed doomed to failure. How did you help a man who didn’t want to be helped and who was watched every minute of every day? There had to be co-operation; without that, it was impossible. If he, Shard, made any attempt to force Hughes-Jones from his apartment, he would be arrested immediately. Impasse loomed; but there had to be a way. Shard didn’t like the smell of failure, and there was time yet. Maybe there was another angle, another approach somewhere. Kolotechin? Shard was still under certain orders from Hedge vis-à-vis Kolotechin: he had to make contact with the Russian. If he could do that — if — there might be some way of extracting Hughes-Jones at the same time, but he had a feeling that was pushing things a little far beyond likelihood.