Shard Calls the Tune Read online

  A few minutes later, whilst on the move towards the gate to beat sunset by a fraction, any immediate prospect of pushing anything anywhere ceased. Two men in plain clothes materialised behind Shard and he felt his arms taken in a rough grip. A knee was driven sharply into his kidneys and as he staggered in intense pain his shoulder-holster was removed. Not a word was said; he was hustled towards a police van waiting outside the park, and thrown into the back. The van drove off fast and when it stopped and Shard was ordered out at gun-point, he emerged into the courtyard of the Lubyanka prison on Dzerzhinski Square.

  *

  It had been an obvious risk, but a risk had had to be taken if he was ever to establish contact with Hughes-Jones, and it had not paid off. That was all about it; no use crying over it now. Arrest had always been on the cards from the moment he had entered Russia; now he had to get out again.

  Easier said than done.

  Shard sat in a cell, his head in his hands. Time dragged past. There was no room to move; there was just about space for the hard flap-seat, on which he sat with his knees touching the steel door. It was like a cubicle in a public lavatory and as sparsely furnished. His watch had been removed along with all his other possessions and he had no idea of time, had no idea of how far off the dawn might be. There was no window, and he would be unable to hear even the morning sounds of other prisoners moving about, for instance on their ablutions, since every corridor of the Lubyanka gaol was thickly carpeted to obliterate sound. The Lubyanka was a hell-hole, an immense torture-chamber in which men and women all too often went mad. Stay too long, and they broke your spirit prior to remitting you to Siberia and the salt mines and the cold bleak winds of the Arctic. Fanciful? Not always; Shard had been in the Lubyanka before and had seen some sights he would prefer to forget but couldn’t. In the basement, even the stone seemed to reek of blood and cruelty. True, people did get out, but seldom quickly. Innocence was an unwelcome diagnosis to the gaol authorities and was resisted as long as possible.

  Meanwhile, as he knew from his past experience, he would face a long wait in solitary confinement before the interrogation began, though someone in the British Embassy should begin to get anxious soon and might make enquiries; the Embassy would be expected to make enquiries just to maintain their own shining innocence of any chicanery on his part. True, he would thereafter be left to his fate; but it would look suspicious if no questions were asked at all about a missing man.

  The thought failed to bring consolation. Shard, waiting as it seemed interminably upon somebody’s pleasure, suffered mental agony. Would they now bring Hughes-Jones in again, or have him, as had been suggested, despatched in the street and then lay the blame on the British Embassy? And what of Kolotechin, and Hedge hovering in Malta’s plush comfort for the defector to appear? The whole thing had gone sour and of course he would take the blame in his absence; not entirely unreasonably he was bound to admit. Maybe he had been foolishly precipitate; yet what else could he have done? His thoughts moved homeward to the small house in Ealing, so far away. Beth wouldn’t be getting anxious for some while, of course, but that time would come and she wouldn’t get any assurance from the Foreign Office. Even Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine would have to keep sealed lips or face early retirement, and he didn’t know the full score anyway. Beth would be frantic with worry, and Mrs Micklam wouldn’t help. She would fuss and drip sympathy, of course, but there would be hints that she’d never approved of the marriage from the start and that all things were for the best if one could but see it. Shard ground his teeth and found that his head was now resting on clenched fists. He tried to relax; tension, like Mrs Micklam, never helped.

  Time passed; he was being left to soften up. Hunger and thirst grew, and there was still a nasty dull ache in the kidney region.

  *

  At 1000 hours that morning the Foreign Secretary was due to meet the Chairman of the Council of Ministers, the Minister of Defence and the Minister for Foreign Affairs, plus the Minister of Foreign Trade since his mission was partly to try to secure some increase in British exports to the Soviet Union. Before he left, he was given the report that Detective Chief Superintendent Simon Shard, alias Richard Meldon, appeared to be missing.

  “Off on some business of his own?” he suggested with a lift of his eyebrows.

  The Ambassador said, “Possibly.”

  “I don’t see that we can do anything at this stage. You have feelers out?”

  “As usual, yes.”

  “No result?”

  “None.”

  The Foreign Secretary frowned. “What was his cover job?”

  It was an aide who answered. “Protocol and Conference, sir. Higher Executive Officer.”

  “Yes.” The Foreign Secretary’s frown grew deeper. “Damn and blast. This is a confounded nuisance. Hughes-Jones —” He broke off, glancing at his watch. “I mustn’t be late. You’d better get your man Moriarty onto this, Ambassador.”

  “Already done. I’ll keep you informed.”

  “Yes, do that.” The Foreign Secretary seemed relieved that decision was to be delayed. ‘Waiting for information’ covered a multitude of consciences throughout the diplomatic world, and he happened to have a conscience. It was highly unpleasant to have to leave a man to his fate but his hands were tied; he would do what he could and that would have to be all. He went down to the waiting official car, where the Embassy chauffeur opened the door for him. In the seat alongside the chauffeur a blank-faced man sat, a thick and heavy man, sitting VIP guard. Gawpers watched, held back by armed, uniformed police. As the Foreign Secretary had emerged, a demonstration had started up opposite the Embassy: banners and placards appeared, and there were shouts in English. The Soviet was still oppressing its Jewry, and Britain, as a free democracy, should make its voice heard in their defence. The forthcoming discussions, or the success of them, should be made dependent upon the Kremlin relaxing its anti-Jewish stance. The Foreign Secretary agreed with the sentiment; he waved a friendly hand through bulletproof glass just as the armed police moved in and ripped up the placards and wrapped the banners round their bearers, then put the boot in. Blood began to flow as the Embassy car glided smoothly away to the Kremlin. Inside the Embassy, Mortimer Moriarty heard the battle sounds coming through his window as he considered the likely position of Detective Chief Superintendent Shard.

  “Bastards,” he said to his secretary.

  “Yes.” The girl seemed displeased, not with the expressed sentiment but with the inherent lack of caution; all too many bugs had been discovered from time to time in the Embassy building and when the Ambassador was in conference or talking to important visitors such as the Foreign Secretary, electronic anti-bug noises were employed to defeat those bugs. So they were in Moriarty’s room from time to time, including now, but the secretary didn’t trust them. “If I were you, I’d watch it.”

  Moriarty grinned. “You could be right, June dear.” He moved closer, and thereafter spoke into the girl’s ear and enjoyed doing so. He said, “All right? It’s more matey, anyhow.”

  “You were saying?”

  “Yes, I was saying, wasn’t I. About … about Richard Meldon. We’ve got to react. By which I mean, his absence should be officially reported.”

  “That’s routine. But you sound doubtful. Why?”

  Moriarty shifted uneasily. “Our Welsh friend’s pretty important back home. I can’t risk throwing spanners. Meldon may be following something up. If so, any report could jeopardise what he’s doing. See?”

  She nodded. “I do see. But neither can you afford the risk of arousing suspicion by not making a report if they have got him in custody.”

  “I know! You’ve put your delicate finger bang on my little problem, haven’t you? So what do we do? Any ideas?”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But I don’t know … have you come across a Miss Ernestine Brown, by any chance?”

  Moriarty looked blank. “No, thank God. Should I?”

  “Out from White
hall with the FS’s party. Eastern European and Soviet.”

  “Oh.”

  “A very frustrated spinster. Never stops talking. One thing she’s been talking about is Mr Meldon. They were seat mates in the aircraft, one gathers — and gathers it at great length. She liked him. He was a good listener.”

  Moriarty still looked blank. “So?”

  “So this: Miss Brown has no suspicion that Meldon’s anything other than just that — Richard Meldon of Protocol and Conference. She’d take a bible oath on it. When you’re convinced of something yourself, you have a chance of convincing others. If Meldon’s cover hasn’t been blown — that’s if he is in custody — there must still be a doubt in the KGB mind, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And Miss Brown might well resolve it. Better, perhaps, than you could. Or H.E. I’ve a feeling she’d put it quite passionately!”

  “All this assumes his cover hasn’t been blown already.”

  “Of course,” the girl said crisply. “I did make that point. But isn’t it worth a try?”

  “You mean get this Brown woman to make enquiries at KGB headquarters?”

  “About a missing man, yes.”

  Moriarty shook his head. “It still doesn’t solve the matter of the report having to be official. We can’t just accept that a member of a visiting delegation has vanished.”

  “Check — we can’t. We all know that. Miss Brown makes the report, officially and in person. And passionately, as I said.”

  Moriarty grinned. “Even to the Russians, her deep love might appear somewhat sudden.”

  “It doesn’t have to be love,” the girl said. “Just an interest in a fine, upstanding man. Maybe I used the wrong word: for passionately read forthrightly. Can’t some people be admired without having to be loved, for God’s sake?”

  Moriarty pulled her closer and kissed her forehead. “It’s possible,” he said. “I’ll put it to H.E., who’ll probably laugh it out of court.”

  *

  The door of Shard’s cell was opened up; two men stood outside wearing KGB uniform. Both were armed with rapid-fire Kalashnikov AKM assault rifles. Not a word was said; only a gesture was given. Obeying it, Shard moved stiffly out into the corridor, on to the thick, sound-muffling carpet. The sides of the corridor were broken by the doors of other cells, each with its spy-hole. The total silence was oppressive; even the Kalashnikovs emitted no rattle of slings. Shard was taken to a narrow lift, a lift divided into two sections by a steel bulkhead, one side for himself, the other for the guards. The door was shut and the lift ascended, also in total silence. When it stopped, Shard was brought out into another carpeted corridor, twin of the one below except that on this floor there were no cells, just ordinary offices. One of the office doors was opened, and he was pushed in ahead of the rifles. There was a wide window and Shard could see the sun shining on Moscow below, striking colour from the Kremlin’s distant towers. The position of the sun said it was not yet quite noon. Before the window was an immense desk, and behind it two men sat, one of them in plain clothes, the other wearing the uniform of a colonel in the security police. The Colonel was tall and lean-faced, the civilian was not unlike Mortimer Moriarty, short and plump and, by his expression at any rate, jovial.

  “Sit,” the Colonel said abruptly, and Shard sat on a hard upright chair facing the desk. The guards remained in the background, by the door. There was a longish pause, during which both men stared at Shard penetratingly, then the Colonel spoke again. “Your name?” he asked in English.

  “I gave it when I was checked in,” Shard said. “Richard Meldon.”

  “Of the British Foreign Office?”

  “Yes. My passport’s in order and properly visa-ed for entry into the Soviet Union —”

  “This we know.”

  “Then may I ask why I was arrested?” Shard demanded.

  The civilian answered that, with a happy smile. “Hughes-Jones has been questioned. Him you met in the Sokolniki Park, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you meet?”

  Shard said, “I’m sure Hughes-Jones told you that.”

  “Yes. Now you tell.”

  “To give him news of his wife Megan.”

  “As directed by your superiors in the Foreign Office?”

  “No. A friendly gesture. I’d met his wife, and I took an interest.”

  “It is friendly, to tell a man that his wife has sexual relations with another man?”

  Shard shrugged. “I don’t know if it was friendly or not in that sense. I believed he should be told, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “He was said to be returning to England. I thought a word of warning was … kind.”

  “How do you know he was returning to England?”

  “He’d been released. There was gossip.”

  “In the Foreign Office?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And your department is?”

  “Protocol and Conference.”

  “This department is concerned with the return of released persons?”

  “No. Not exactly. As I said, there was general gossip. Hughes-Jones has become rather well-known in Britain since his arrest.”

  “This also we know.” There was an exchange of looks between the civilian and the uniformed officer. The plump man went on, “Released he has been, yes, and will shortly be returned to the United Kingdom. This will bring joy to British hearts and we are glad. We have nothing but friendship for the British people. There is no iron in our souls and we have no Iron Ladies.” For a moment the plump man shook with mirth. Sobering down, he said, “We are, of course, concerned with our national security, and this is natural. Hughes-Jones had transgressed, and had to pay for this. Now he has paid, he is free to go home.”

  “Good. And me?”

  Very surprisingly the Russian said, “You also are free, Mr Richard Meldon of Protocol and Conference. Your delegation is most welcome in Moscow. We do not wish to disturb the even tenor of its stay. We are sorry you have been inconvenienced. In future, however, please do not try to make contact with Hughes-Jones.”

  “Why not?” Shard asked.

  “Because we do not wish it, that is why. Until Hughes-Jones leaves Russia he is our responsibility. Ours only. You must accept this, and not transgress again.” The plump man stood up; so did the Colonel. “Now you may go. We wish you good-day.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your personal belongings will be returned before you leave. Even the automatic pistol will be returned.” The face was dead-pan, leaving Shard to wonder much, but you didn’t look Russian gift horses in the mouth. Shard uttered further words of thanks, and the plump man said, “In the lobby a lady waits for you.”

  Shard stared. “A lady?”

  “A compatriot and colleague, Mr Meldon. Do not keep her waiting — please.”

  *

  The plump man’s plea had sounded heartfelt; Shard soon found out why. He heard Miss Brown’s voice before he saw her, lashing across the Lubyanka’s entrance lobby. He was still mystified, but once outside she explained. Under instructions from the Ambassador via Mr Moriarty, she said, she had gone straight to KGB headquarters and reported a gendeman missing since the night before. She had been adamant that something must be done to find Mr Meldon. Shard grinned inwardly; he could well imagine Miss Brown’s advance to the attack, clasping her sensibly zipped handbag (there were light fingers in Moscow) like a shield before her, and then simply wearing down all argument or opposition just by talking. Possibly she had helped him get out, possibly she had not; Shard was still thoroughly mystified by that aspect too. There was a lot more behind it than had yet emerged, and for a certainty he was going to have a tail wherever he moved. Meanwhile, as they walked along the street, Miss Brown was talking yet.

  “They were very polite, I must say.”

  “And forthcoming?”

  She nodded; she was wearing a hat, and something at its summit waved and di
pped as she nodded. “Yes. They told me where you were, that is. They said you’d been arrested! I was furious about that and said so quite plainly. Of course, people are always getting arrested in Russia, so I can’t say I was wildly surprised, but I was certainly angry. I mean, you’re FO, after all.”

  “Yes, indeed. Did they say why I’d been arrested?”

  “Oh, yes. Being seen in the Sokolniki Park after sunset. Just fancy that! Suppose we did that in Hyde Park or Kensington Gardens!”

  Shard murmured, “All those couples in the bushes …”

  “I don’t think that was called for,” Miss Brown said, marching on.

  “Sorry!”

  “If you ask me, those people deserve arresting. It’s not called Swinging London any more I’m relieved to say, but a certain amount still goes on.” She didn’t let up all the way to the Embassy; by the time he was able to shed her so as to report to Moriarty, Shard felt deafness in one ear. The moment she had left him she found someone else to talk to. Her voice followed him up in the lift, almost. Moriarty was much relieved to see him, and reported at once by phone to the Ambassador when Shard had passed his story. Ringing off, he sat staring oddly at Shard, not speaking.

  “What’s the matter?” Shard asked irritably. “You’ve seen me before now.”

  “Yes. I apologise, old chap. I was just thinking … why did they let you out? I’ve a shrewd idea they knew bloody well who you were.”

  “Same here.”

  “Any theories?”

  “Hard to say. The Russian mind’s fairly devious when it wants to be. Maybe it was just a warning … just a showing of the velvet fist.”