some way connected with the friend you won’t tell me about? The one you took to London? I have a feeling I’ve even met him. Is that possible?’
I am making a leap of intuition. I am putting two and two together and making five. I am remembering an episode that occurred during the convivial handover with Giles in Sergei’s university lodgings. The door opens without a knock, a cheerful youth with an earring and a ponytail pops his head round and starts to say ‘Hey, Serge, have you got a—’ then sees us and with a suppressed ‘whoops’ closes the door softly behind him as if to say he was never there.
In another part of my head, the full force of memory has struck home to me. Anastasia alias Anette, and whatever other names she favours, is no longer a fleeting shadow half remembered from my past. She is a solid figure of stature and operational prowess, much as Sergei himself has just described her.
‘Sergei,’ I say in a gentler tone than I have used so far, ‘why else might you not want to be Markus Schweizer in London for the summer? Have you planned a holiday with your friend? It’s a stressful life. We understand those things.’
‘They wish only to kill me.’
‘And if you have made holiday plans, and you can tell me who your friend is, then maybe we can come to a mutually acceptable arrangement.’
‘I have no such plans, Peter. I think actually you are projecting. Maybe you have plans for yourself. I know nothing about you. Norman was kind to me. You are a wall. You are Peter. You are not my friend.’
‘Then who is your friend?’ I insist. ‘Come on, Sergei. We’re human. After a year on your own here in England, don’t tell me you haven’t found somebody to pal up with? All right, maybe you should have notified us. Let’s forget that. Let’s assume it’s not all that serious. Just someone to go on holiday with. A summer partner. Why not?’
He rounds on me in Russian outrage and barks:
‘He is not my summer partner! He is the friend of my heart!’
‘Well in that case,’ I say, ‘he sounds exactly the sort of friend you need and we must find a way to keep him happy. Not in London, but we’ll think of something. Is he a student?’
‘He is postgraduate. He is kulturny—’ and for my better understanding: ‘He is cultivated in all artistic subjects.’
‘And a fellow physicist perhaps?’
‘No. For English literature. For your great poets. For all poets.’
‘Does he know you were a Russian agent?’
‘He would despise me.’
‘Even if you are working for the British?’
‘He despises all deception.’
‘Then we have nothing to worry about, do we? Just write down his name for me here on this piece of paper.’
He accepts my notepad and pen, turns his back to me and writes.
‘And his birthday, which I’m sure you know,’ I add.
He writes again, rips off the page, folds it and with an imperious gesture hands it to me. I unfold it, glance at the name, slip it into the padded envelope with his other offerings and recover my notepad.
‘So, Sergei,’ I say, in an altogether warmer tone. ‘We shall resolve the matter of your Barry in the next few days. Positively. Creatively, I’m sure. Then I won’t have to tell Her Majesty’s Home Office that you’ve ceased collaborating with us, will I? And by doing so violated the terms of your residence.’
A fresh torrent of rain sweeps across the windscreen.
‘Sergei accepts,’ he announces.
*
I have driven a distance and parked under a clump of chestnut trees where the wind and rain are not so ferocious. Seated beside me, Sergei has adopted a pose of superior detachment and is pretending to study the scenery.
‘So let’s talk some more about your Anette,’ I suggest, selecting my most relaxed tone of voice. ‘Or shall we go back to calling her Anastasia, which is how you knew her when she lectured you? Tell me more about her talents.’
‘She is an accomplished linguist and a woman of great quality and education and most skilled in conspiracy.’
‘Age?’
‘I would say, perhaps fifty. Fifty-three maybe. Not beautiful, but with much dignity and charisma. In the face also. Such a woman could believe in God.’
Sergei also believes in God, he has told his debriefers. But his faith must not be mediated. As an intellectual he has no love of clergy.
‘Height?’ I enquire.
‘I would say, one metre sixty-five.’
‘Voice?’
‘Anastasia spoke only English with us, in which