Part 16 (1/2)

Wainwright's bladder went. A deepening, dark stain began to grow and he looked down at himself and the watching Russians heard him say 'Oh no ...' Almost at once, in private conversation with himself, Wainwright said, 'Knew it would happen: always knew it would happen.' He slumped back in the chair again, legs apart now for a different sort of comfort.

The torture recording had been made under psychological supervision. The sounds didn't end, at once. They seemed to come from a distance, fresh sounds of agony and then gradually subsiding groaning, the screams becoming sobs, then discernible, helpless crying.

Wainwright sat comparatively upright but with his head lolled forward, as if he were examining the wetness of his lap, hands together in a loose praying gesture. Despite the sensitivity of the listening devices, Wainwright's words were at first difficult for Kalenin or Berenkov to hear. They strained and at last identified it, a mantra to which he was still trying to cling.

'... accredited as the first secretary to the emba.s.sy of Her Britannic Majesty, Queen Elizabeth ... protected by Vienna Convention ... accredited as the first secretary to the emba.s.sy of Her Britannic Majesty, Queen Elizabeth ...'

Kalenin jabbed at the console in front of him, depressing the b.u.t.ton that would send Koblov back into the room. The Russian's entry was different this time a continuation of technique no longer curtly abrupt but less hurried, more sympathetic.

'They'll be here soon,' he said, soft-voiced also. 'Maybe fifteen minutes. I'm sorry. It's not my way.'

'No!' said Wainwright, pleading.

'I'm sorry,' repeated Koblov. 'I don't decide.'

'Please no.'

'They're impatient.'

'Let me tell you: let me tell you now.'

Because the room was completely wired, they were ready outside. The sound at the door was not a knock but the flat-handed thump of a familiar workman demanding access to a repet.i.tive job. Wainwright cringed from the sound. There was fresh wetness and he reached out to Koblov and said again 'Please no. Please!'

Koblov appeared to consider the plea and then shouted, in Russian. 'Wait! In a moment.' The response from outside was gutteral, a muttered protest of impatience and Koblov shouted, 'I said wait. Give me a moment.' He actually smiled at Wainwright and said, 'You'll have to hurry.'

'What?' said Wainwright, emptily. 'Tell me what you want.'

'Everything,' urged Koblov. 'Tell me everything, from the very beginning.'

Wainwright did. He started at the moment of contact, when he received the note in the pocket of a coat he retrieved from the cloakroom at the Bolshoi and of the information that accompanied it, alerting them to level of intelligence available. And then of the subsequent drops, every item as startling and as important as that which preceded it. Wainwright recounted London's excited, anxious response and the establishment of the special code and the decision, after he had made fifteen pick-ups, to transfer the control to another of their station men, Brian Richardson, because London was determined against losing the source by detection.

'That's when I stopped being control,' said Wainwright. 'Two and a half months ago.'

Koblov didn't hurry or depart from the procedure, despite the need for urgency, of which he was well aware. He took Wainright back to the beginning again, the Bolshoi itself, and filled in the gaps that Wainwright had hurried by, in his anxiety, establis.h.i.+ng that the drops were always dictated to and never by Wainwright. He took the slips from the file again and went through them, one by one, formally establis.h.i.+ng each in their order of transmission and at last approached the essential of the arrest and the interrogation, the ident.i.ty of the source. Koblov even did that circ.u.mlocutiously.

'What was the code cover: the name by which he was known?'

'Rose,' said Wainwright and behind the mirror Berenkov smiled wryly and shook his head.

'Always Rose? The code never altered?'

'It may have done, when Richardson took over. I would have expected it to be changed, with a new control. That is the procedure.'

'What's the real name?' Koblov asked the vital question quietly, dismissively almost, continuing the impression that all he was doing anyway was confirming what they already knew.

'I don't know,' said Wainwright, at once.

Beside him Berenkov felt Kalenin stiffen.

Koblov, the professional questioner, showed no reaction. 'The person who made contact at the Bolshoi. And then on the other fourteen occasions,' he elaborated, as if he imagined Wainwright had misunderstood the initial question. 'Who was he? What was his name?'

Wainwright looked back curiously at the Russian. 'But I thought I made that clear,' he said. 'There was never a meeting; an open contact. It was a blind approach at the Bolshoi and that was the way it continued. When we picked up from each drop there would be the next one specified. He if it is a he was only ever Rose.'

'We were wrong to pick him up,' said Kalenin, distantly. 'We knew the other man had already gone; we should have let Wainwright run.'

In the interview room, Koblov was continuing smoothly on, his outward demeanour giving no indication of his inward frustration: he was aware of being literally under the eyes of the chairman himself and wanted the interrogation to be a triumph. 'After you ceased being control, Richardson took over?'

'Yes,' reiterated Wainwright.

'But you're station chief: the resident?'

'Yes.'

'So you were in charge of Richardson?'

Wainwright shook his head. 'I told you that, too,' he said. 'When London realised what it had they suspended some of the normal procedures. Richardson worked entirely independently: taking over the cipher codes. The Rose operation itself. I was actually told not to become involved, so that I wouldn't know.'

'You must have talked,' persisted Koblov, still gentle. 'It had been your operation, to begin with. And it was a spectacular one, according to London's reaction. You must have talked about it to Richardson.'

Wainwright smiled, an unusual expression for the man. 'Not about the subsequent information. I was banned from that. And there wasn't anything to talk about anyway. They continued to be blind contacts.'

'So you discussed the ident.i.ty!' seized Koblov.

'I asked him if he'd met Rose,' qualified Wainwright. 'I've never known an operation like this before; neither had Richardson.'

'And?' prompted Koblov.

'Richardson said it was the same for him as it had been for me: he'd never met Rose.'

'Did you believe him?'

Wainwright hesitated. 'I had no reason not to.'

'But you'd been moved from control,' reminded Koblov. 'Distanced from what was happening. Richardson would have lied to you, wouldn't he, if he'd been told to?'

'Oh yes,' agreed Wainwright at once. 'But I didn't get the impression that he was. I think I would have known.'

'Richardson's been withdrawn,' reminded Koblov.

'Yes.'

'So who's the new control? Richardson took over from you. Who's taken over from Richardson?'

'I don't think anyone has,' said Wainwright.

'You wouldn't think,' said Koblov, minutely increasing the pressure because he felt the Briton was relaxing. 'You're still the resident. You'd know.'