AFTER MORE THAN A YEAR without contact between Finn and me, our reunion held all the anticipation–principally the fear and doubts–that any lover would have felt in the same position.
How would we feel about each other now, I wondered, away from the familiarity of the surroundings where our intimacy had grown? Was our affair a thing of a particular time and place? Would the spark between us still exist? Would it need rekindling?
Too much expectation risked disappointment, too little risked failing to rise to the occasion and, perhaps, missing the moment, the opportunity, for ever.
I felt awkward and out of place at the airport in Marseilles, coming through the sliding glass doors beyond Immigration. There were groups of my fellow Russians already brimming with enthusiasm for a summer holiday away from Moscow’s more anxious heat. My own arrival brought me face to face with a task that now seemed impossible: to love Finn and satisfy my masters.
I didn’t see Finn at first. And then something drew my gaze towards a figure leaning against a car rental desk by the exit. He was reading a newspaper and it covered most of his face. Between us was a throng of taxi drivers and private chauffeurs holding cards with names on them.
I looked idly across the airport’s concourse and wondered who was from the Forest here, who had travelled with me on the plane, and where they were placed in the hall now.
The reason I didn’t see Finn at first was because he’d almost completely changed. He was very tanned and hadn’t shaved for several days. His hair was long, down to his shoulders, and he’d dyed it a sort of dirty blond. He was wearing a light blue canvas jacket and jeans and, I was startled to see when he flicked the newspaper over briefly, he had no shirt under the jacket. Around his neck I saw a necklace of blue stones, lapis maybe. It was his feet I finally recognised. He wore a pair of old deck shoes with paint on the left shoe. I remembered them from his flat in Moscow.
In a split second our eyes met and then he looked away, still holding the newspaper. He walked with measured swiftness in the opposite direction and exited through automatic glass doors into the azure heat. I didn’t follow him but exited through other automatic doors straight ahead of me. We found ourselves thirty yards apart, on the pavement where the taxis and buses pulled up. We were separated by travellers, their luggage, drivers, porters and airport staff. There was a convenient pandemonium of greeting, and the loading of vehicles.
From the corner of my eye I saw Finn walk quickly across the road, dodging cars, and I followed parallel, keeping the thirty yards between us. Madly, I was briefly irritated in the heat that he wasn’t carrying my heavy case.
I saw him weave into a car park. I watched him look around lazily, behind and in front, and automatically made the same scan myself to see if anyone on foot was tailing either of us. For me in the crush, it was impossible to know, but he seemed to be clear. I saw him flick a switch on a bunch of keys and the lights on a white Renault flashed. I stopped on the far side of the slip road.
He got into the car, reversed out and drove slowly down the slip road towards me. I watched to see if other cars did the same. He stopped the car and threw open the passenger door and one of the rear doors. I manhandled my case on to the back seat and stepped in beside him.
I had forgotten it would be like this. Because it was Finn I was meeting, I was unprepared for it. His first words to me were matter-of-fact.
‘What’s behind?’
‘A dark blue BMW about twenty yards away and a white Mercedes behind that.’
‘Ahead?’
‘Green Peugeot and a taxi.’
‘Let’s go,’ he said, and grinned straight into my heart.
We drew up at the automatic barrier and there were queues at all the barriers on either side. Finn put the parking card into the machine and the barrier rose. Before he accelerated through, he slid a thin metal card into the machine’s slot. We drove under the barrier, I saw him watch it fall in the mirror behind us, and then he grinned. The blue BMW couldn’t get the machine to accept its own parking card and was trying to reverse out, but there were at least four cars behind it. We drove out to the sound of angry horns.
‘There’ll be at least one ahead,’ Finn said. ‘They’re watching you, not me.’
‘There,’ I said.
A green Peugeot was pulled over on to the grass fifty yards away and as we passed, it slipped on to the road behind us.
‘Look out for others,’ Finn said.
We turned westwards out on to the motorway. I watched in the side mirror for what was behind us, the green Peugeot and whatever else might be following. Finn drove fast so that when, some twenty minutes after we’d left the airport behind us, he suddenly pulled up on the hard shoulder, I was jolted forwards.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, looking in the mirror.
The green Peugeot overshot by forty yards or so and swerved on to the hard shoulder also.
‘There they are,’ Finn said.
I saw the passenger talking into a phone.
Traffic passed us, but no one else stopped. I was watching the green Peugeot ahead of us further down the hard shoulder when Finn slammed his foot on to the accelerator and we surged backwards for thirty yards and then he slammed the gear lever into first and swung the wheel down to the left and on to a motorway works entrance that was so concealed I hadn’t seen it.
We left the motorway in a squeal of tyres and crashed on to a dusty track that led to a quarry-like bowl full of road-making machinery.
Finn drove through this apparent dead end and out of the other side on to another dust track that led back in the direction we’d come from. I looked behind and saw the green Peugeot racing backwards along the hard shoulder.
Finn drove at breakneck speed for about a mile. I looked behind and saw dust kicking up far away as the green Peugeot finally found its way out of the quarry behind us.
The track we were on led back under the motorway and joined a small country road. Finn turned on to it and headed back again in the direction we’d been travelling on the motorway.
There was a distance of half a mile to the car behind and its occupants couldn’t have seen which way we’d turned on to the country road. Finn accelerated and drove so fast I hardly noticed what we were passing. We turned off again twice, on to two more single-track country roads like the first one. When he was finally satisfied he had lost our tail, he slowed and turned off on to another dust road that led out southwards over a great expanse of dead, flat, bleak saltpans that stretched for miles in either direction.
There was no other traffic, not even the occasional slow farm vehicle we’d overtaken on the side roads. Finn drove the car out of sight into a gully and we waited, not speaking.
When we came back up on to the track he drove very slowly and on the grass edges, so that the dust didn’t kick up. We must have driven for another twenty minutes on this winding track across the old, disused saltpans. And then I felt rather than saw the sea. We were so low that the dunes ahead obscured the view.
We seemed to be heading nowhere in a salt-and-sand desert. But when we finally reached the dunes and Finn pulled up behind them, I saw there was a dilapidated wooden shack, obscured from the road. It was a campers’ restaurant, open only in the summer, which contained a few drifting adolescents sitting at rickety tables. Beyond the wooden structure of the restaurant were two more rickety wooden buildings, small shacks erected in a chaotic, haphazard fashion and constructed from what looked like bleached driftwood. Finn cut the engine and looked at me.
‘Fancy a swim?’ he said and grinned again. We got out of the car. ‘And I think it’s about time I carried your case,’ he said.
We walked across hot sand–I’d kicked off my shoes–past the restaurant and up to the second of the two shacks built at an angle to the sea. We still haven’t touched each other, I thought. The door to the shack was unlocked and Finn pushed it open with his foot and threw the case down. Then he took off his jacket and his jeans to reveal a pair of faded blue floral swimming shorts. He ran down the beach and into the sea, not stopping until the water became too deep and he fell forwards into it.
He looked round when he’d come up from under the surface and shouted.
‘Come on, it’s beautiful.’
I changed and joined him.
That was how it was, our first meeting in over a year. Finn never said hello. He didn’t kiss me. He never asked me how the flight was, if I was tired, what my departure from the Forest had been like. It was as if I’d just come back from a visit to the shops, rather than that we hadn’t seen each other for over a year.
And all this suited me, I realised. Everything I’d half prepared in my mind before our meeting, and that was so inadequate, faded away, and with it went all my awkward anxiety.
We drink beers sitting in the sand, swim again, and then go to bed in an extremely uncomfortable wooden structure that Finn tells me is the bed. Later we eat out at a table in the sand in front of what Finn insists is the restaurant as the sun starts to sink into the sea.
There is only fish, Finn informs me. The owner of the shacks is a Hungarian who came over in 1956 after the uprising against the Russians there failed. He’d taught himself to be a fisherman. Back then, when these things were still possible, he’d built the shacks illegally, constructed from driftwood in this isolated place where few people wanted to come and which he’d never left.
He is now seventy-odd years old, Finn tells me, and whatever there is for lunch every day depends on what he’s caught that morning.
‘I didn’t tell him you were Russian, by the way,’ Finn says. Finn has a curious, self-deprecating and ultimately deceitful habit of apologising for who he is and expecting others to as well. In Moscow, when anyone asked him if he was English, he would always say, ‘I’m afraid I am.’ It was a peculiarly English deceit, I thought.
‘This is just about the only spot for nearly fifty miles that hasn’t been developed at all,’ Finn says. ‘They can’t build on the saltpans. There’s nothing at all in either direction for several miles. To the left you eventually come to Marseilles’ industrial wasteland.’
I can see the ugly belching smokestacks in the distance.
‘To the right there’s a tourist beach, empty of buildings, three miles along from here. Sometimes you see someone who’s walked it but not often and they don’t do it a second time. It isn’t a pretty place except when you look out to sea.’
‘Fast work to find it in three days,’ I say.
‘Yes, you didn’t give me much warning, Rabbit.’
But of course Finn has known the place for years. I find later that the Hungarian, whom Finn introduces as Willy, has some connection to the Service. At any rate Finn persuaded Willy to throw out some hippies from our shack when he received my message that I was coming.
‘We’ll be fine here for a while,’ Finn says later. ‘And this place is always here when we need to get away.’ And then, on our first night for fourteen months, he finally falls asleep with his arm around my stomach. I lie and watch the stars and listen to the thin-lipped waves that slip quietly on to the edge of the sand. Some gypsy music is playing from a hippy tent further down the beach. It is as if we’ve never been apart; as if we’ve known each other long before we ever met. It is the same as it was.
For nearly three days we say nothing about the reason I’m here and slowly the burden of it recedes. Finn ensures that we concentrate just on ourselves. We talk a lot about the distant past, about where we’ve come from, things that aren’t recorded in Finn’s file we kept at the Forest, things we never knew. And I respond with little stories of my own upbringing. It is like the games we used to play in Moscow, teasing each other with what we knew about the other, except that these are revelations, background that neither of us knew before, and we aren’t taunting each other with them any more.
Finn tells me one evening how he was recruited, or at any rate how they made the initial moves towards his eventual recruitment. He speaks about the past, as we all often do, as if it is something from another life altogether and he was another person then. And I suppose, in Finn’s case more than most, he was another person back then.
‘At the beginning of my second year at Cambridge, I was invited to supper by a gay French professor who drank much too much whisky,’ Finn says on this evening, and a smile plays around his eyes at the memory. ‘I remember on one occasion he chased me round his flat begging me to allow him to beat me with a hardback copy of Balzac’s Passion in the Desert.
‘I didn’t particularly want to accept his invitation to supper. But I was flattered to be asked, even though the reasons for it were fairly obvious. He was always inviting pretty men to his rooms. And I was always easily flattered, Anna,’ Finn says, looking into my eyes so that I see right through them. ‘Even alcoholic pederasts with only one thing on their minds had the power to flatter me in those days, as long as I sensed there was the prospect of mixing with those in high places, or of lifting myself away from my past, or of getting away from myself as I knew me.
‘I was hugely impressed by the fantasy of Cambridge as it seemed to me then, and always in my mind I referred back to the commune in Ireland to reassure myself of how far I’d come. I was always looking for something and expecting to find it in the admiration of others. I needed people to be interested in me. So I accepted his invitation and went to high table at Magdalene College on a wet Friday evening, as usual looking for someone or something to tell me who I was.
‘There was a full table, about twenty or so of us, and afterwards we went to the French don’s rooms for a bottle or two of port. In our party there was the professor of Philosophy from Oxford, Freddie Ayer, the playwright Tom Stoppard, a Russian specialist from London University, the French don and me.
‘The sixth person was Adrian. I remember Freddie Ayer and Tom Stoppard talked for nearly an hour about how far away from earth the Virgin Mary would be now if she’d been travelling at the speed of light. It was bizarre, funny, exciting, stupid, and, most of all, different. It was my fantasy of how university life should be.
‘As usual I wanted to be like the people I was with. But all of them, not one individually. I thought I could piece myself together with bits of everybody, like a jigsaw. As usual I wanted to be everybody and felt nobody. I’ve always been good at being whatever the person I’m talking to at the time wants me to be. They like that, in the Service.’
Finn picks up a stone and throws it beyond the edge of the lazy surf and the ripples shimmer in the moonlight. It seems to me like a gesture of controlled anger, anger at his own behaviour when he was a young man and had been the blotting paper that soaked up the admiration and, perhaps worse, the suggestions of others.
‘Anyway, I performed as usual,’ Finn says. ‘And as usual I felt I was at the centre of everything, of the universe itself, and at the same time completely apart. I immersed myself in the talk that went around the room, trying to impress, and apparently I did. At the end of the evening, Adrian offered me a lift back to my college, but we went and had a drink at his hotel instead. He asked me how I was enjoying my course and wouldn’t it be better to do something rather more useful than Classics. Some living languages, for example.
‘At about two in the morning, I walked home. I had no idea who Adrian actually was, I realised, as I walked through the wet streets. But it didn’t seem to matter. I was glowing at the memory of all these clever people who could make a conversation from anything, and I was impressed by Adrian’s keen attention. “Someone from the Foreign Office” was how he had been described and I didn’t think beyond that. I’d been invited to go on to have a drink with this incredible someone at the Foreign Office. Adrian had such power, Anna. He was the kind of man I’d been looking for. I thought he was someone who could tell me who I was.
‘So, six months later I changed my course at Cambridge to Russian. No one told me to, it was almost a sixth sense. But I changed courses, I realised much later, to please Adrian, even though I hadn’t seen him for more than that one night.’
‘You were looking for a father,’ I say, thinking of my own.
‘I was looking for me,’ Finn replies. ‘I’ve always been surrounded by people, friends, lovers, anyone who cared for me. But the person who was always absent in the room was me.’
We come from different sides, Finn and I, in more ways than one. But this, perhaps, is the most influential difference between us. I have always been running away from my father, to the extent that I’d actually joined the intelligence service in my country as a means to be free from him through exceeding his expectations. Perhaps I fool myself. But Finn, I know, has always been running towards something, blindly, towards his lost identity.
‘You were perfect for Adrian,’ I say.
‘Yes, Anna, that’s the truth of it,’ Finn replies, and there is silence for a while. He finally resumes. ‘I didn’t see Adrian for another two or three years, though. When I left Cambridge I had a first-class degree.’ He speaks the words with some mockery. ‘I travelled to all the places I’d read about, all around the Soviet Union. I wrote articles, short stories and a diary on my travels. I shot a bear with a university teacher in the Caucasus mountains, fished with the Mayor of Yugansk, fell in love with a prostitute in Magadan of all places…I wandered rather than travelled,’ he corrects himself. ‘But as Rilke warns, “Beware, O wanderer, for the road is walking too.”
‘And then one day in Hong Kong, maybe three years after I’d left Cambridge, I was watching the Rugby Seven-a-Sides and there, suddenly, was Adrian standing beside me. I was overjoyed, or relieved, one of the two anyway. He filled up the empty years immediately. I’d have done practically anything for him.
‘Two months later, I started my training and he was always with me after that. I felt like I’d come home.’
On another evening we are sitting at a table at the edge of the restaurant in the sand and Finn talks about Willy.
‘He’s helping me, Anna,’ Finn says. ‘Even at over seventy years old he’s as sharp as anyone.’
‘Isn’t he reporting to London?’ I ask him. ‘Can you trust him?’
‘Oh yes, I can trust him. Willy worked for us for many years. He was one of the best, went over the Wall many times. When he first came to the West he was angry that we’d done nothing to stop Moscow in the Hungarian uprising. But he worked for us in the belief that we were all working on the same brief and that brief included the liberation of his country. But he slowly became disillusioned. He came to believe that no one in London gave a shit about Hungary. He became bitter. He came to hate the Service. But he’s helping me now.’
‘Is he your new Adrian?’ I ask him.
‘No, no.’ Finn smiled and put his hand on mine. ‘I’m finished with that now, grew out of it long ago. But I didn’t know that until recently, until I met Adrian in London.’
Willy joins us and Finn tells him I am to be trusted, despite being Russian. And then, over plates of calamari and a bottle of excellent Condrieu, Finn finally edges on to the subject that has lain dormant for the past few days and which, from time to time, I’ve felt is only a bad dream, something unreal. But Finn speaks in a carefully low-key, non-dramatic way for once, so it seems like we are talking about something that is manageable, something normal. He is laying down what he has been doing in the past year when we’ve been apart.
‘I need to tell you about some companies,’ he says out of the blue one evening. ‘They’re called Exodi. They are the key to everything. They are the key to our freedom too, you and me. When we find what Exodi exists to do, this will be over. I promise you.’
He tells me- Willy obviously knew it all before–what he’s found from Dieter, what Frank finally told him, with some additions from the Troll.
‘Frank has done a lot of research into the companies,’ he says. ‘But first, perhaps, I should tell you the preamble.’
As Finn speaks he draws lines beside the table in the sand with a stick and occasionally makes a letter. Sometimes a bigger wave eradicates a national border, or a line of communication, and this is appropriate in the context. He is drawing a map of connections that stretch from Afghanistan to Uzbekistan, into Transdnestr–the independent territory inside Moldova that was, and is, still loyal to Russia–and then on to Bulgaria and Serbia and further still to a bank in Liechtenstein; the connections wind on from Liechtenstein to Luxembourg and the bank Westbank and then a branch line runs sideways into a box set of companies in the Cayman Islands.
‘This small element of the story, the story so far, starts in Afghanistan,’ he starts to explain, pointing his stick at the top of the map. ‘General Baseer in northern Afghanistan is just one starting point of three, we believe, for Exodi’s funds. Though I doubt he’s ever actually heard of Exodi himself. Baseer’s an Uzbek Afghan. Ally to the Americans, foe to the Russians way back. But that’s just political manoeuvring. Principally he’s just another warlord with interests that take precedence over any marriage of convenience with whatever great power happens to be passing his way at the time. The funds for his power and for his army come from the poppy, of course. With the Taliban in power in Afghanistan, Baseer and the other warlords are finding that their traditional business is hard; heroin is not on the menu under Taliban rule. But they still manage to produce a reduced crop of poppies, mainly in the inaccessible valleys in the north of the country, which is Baseer’s area of control.
‘Well, as an Uzbek Afghan he has excellent connections through family and clans across the border in Uzbekistan that are far stronger than any political line drawn on the map, or any alliance with the Americans. His chief ally there, as perhaps you know, is Uzbeddin Cherimov, the great trader and backer of the Uzbek president. Between Cherimov and the president, the Uzbek KGB was nicely finessed into doing what it does best, facilitating the drugs trade and taking a cut before the line of graft moves up further to Moscow’s mafia and KGB interests.
‘Cherimov is more the international figure in a small group, which includes Uzbekistan’s president and General Meklikov, the old KGB general from Moscow who coordinates from the Forest all the drugs and arms movements through Uzbekistan. The three of them met, in fact, at the Silk Route Hotel in Tashkent last month, 15 August. That’s a national president, Meklikov, a KGB general and Cherimov, a drug baron. Quite a useful gang. It was a regular meeting between the three of them for the division of spoils and future planning.
‘But it’s Cherimov who travels beyond borders the most out of the three. He always has. He’s been a Russian Olympic representative for nearly twenty years; travels everywhere under the Olympic flag. He has a mansion outside Tashkent where all the servants are former athletes. He also has a cotton business that exports from the Fergana Valley in Uzbekistan out to Western Europe and ultimately to America. The main port for the final leg is Brest in France. Originally the heroin went hidden in cotton bales, but now it uses different routes. Through Bulgaria, Serbia, Austria and down into Italy, it is now transported in refrigerated trucks, with the correct baksheesh chucked in the direction of customs officials. The trucks aren’t opened at the borders, the excuse being that it would destroy perishable produce; it’s tomatoes and fruit on the manifest.
‘The northern route goes through Ukraine by rail. There’s over a hundred thousand acres of farmland in Ukraine in a single block that’s owned ultimately by Russian and Ukrainian mafia bosses and overseen by the KGB. In the centre of this land is a railway station, away from prying eyes. Here all the exports are repackaged and sent on under different bills of lading.
‘Cherimov’s been a target of Western agencies for years and I don’t know why he’s still free. He was thrown out of Australia at the last Olympics. Last month he was arrested in Paris, but here’s the strange thing. He wasn’t put in jail or charged with anything at all. He and his cronies were escorted to the Belgian border in three limousines in the dead of night by a team of French police motorcycle outriders. He walked free in Belgium. He is, it seems, untouchable.
‘He stayed in Brussels for three days at a very nice apartment out in the diplomatic area, where the European Commission people can rub shoulders with the world’s diplomats. The apartment belongs to a close friend of Putin, a Russian foreign policy adviser at the European Union.’
Finn pauses and Willy walks over to the bar and brings three beers and some bread and cheese he has bartered for his fish. Willy smiles at me, even though I’m Russian.
‘The Exodi companies,’ Finn continues, ‘are a money-laundering operation for these drug sales. They are also laundering money for certain KGB-controlled arms sales that don’t go via the usual KGB routes and, for one reason or another, need to be even further beneath the parapet. There’s a lot of cash. In the Exodi companies and others we’ve yet to reveal completely, it seems we’re talking about more than twenty-eight billion dollars.
‘For drug sales in the West, there are a number of ways the cash is moved, then laundered. Exodi in Paris provides a security service for some less-than-mainstream national airlines. Each pair of security officers on each plane carries a bag for clothes to wear at the other end. Except the bag isn’t full of clothes, it’s full of cash. Suitcases full of cash that pass through airports all over the world, every day of the year, because they’re being carried by airline security officers.
‘Anyway, whatever way the cash is moved it’s finding its way to Exodi in Liechtenstein which has an account in Vaduz under the name of Fartrust. It’s a trust account with several signatories, including Cherimov’s. The account has various companies behind it, registered in the Caymans.
‘But here’s the strangest thing: only a small proportion of the money goes to the Caymans. Of the twenty-eight and a half billion dollars that was in this Liechtenstein account at the start of this year, only about thirteen million has found its way to the Caymans. Hundreds of millions are going to the Banque Leman in Geneva and at least another hundred million has found its way either directly, or via the Banque Leman, to another Swiss bank in the poorest canton in Switzerland, the Banque Montana in the canton of Valais. The rest must be scattered in these banks or others like them; we don’t know yet.
‘Exodi Geneva is the mover of these funds, while Exodi in Luxembourg opens another account at Westbank but it is a secret account with no published account to back it up legally. Much of the money, I’m sure, is there. Frank, whom I told you about, has found that in one of the Exodi Luxembourg’s secret accounts in Westbank there’s another one and a half billion dollars, or thereabouts.
‘And here’s the great thing, the jackpot perhaps. Frank believes that a great deal of money also passes into this account from Russian state companies: oil and regular arms exporters, diamonds, and others. This money is being mixed with the mafia drug money from Cherimov. It’s all in the same fund. Russian state company funds and Russian mafia money all in the same bed together.’
Finn claps his hands together to indicate this perfect marriage.
‘You have been busy,’ I say and he smiles.
‘So. Now you’re here we need to look further,’ Finn says to me. ‘I need your help.’
‘They did tell me you only wanted to use me,’ I reply.
‘They’re absolutely right. But first we have to talk.’
As if he has been silently asked to do so by Finn, Willy gets up from the table and goes over to the bar where he begins to busy himself with things his barman would normally have done.
Finn stands up and holds out his hand.
‘Why don’t we go for a walk,’ he says.
We walk for maybe a mile up the dark beach in the opposite direction to Marseilles’ industrial smokestacks. Finn holds my hand, a little too tightly I think. He is tense. Out at sea the lights of a big yacht imperceptibly move along the coast keeping pace with us. There is little wind and we can just hear its motor.
Once we are beyond the area around Willy’s little enclave there is nobody apart from a couple of kids smoking dope and staring dumbfounded at the stars, and we soon leave them behind.
Finally, Finn loosens his hand from mine and gestures for us to sit down on the beach. We sit close together. The nights are nearly as warm as the days. Our knees touch and we look out at the yacht with its faraway lights.
‘Did they tell you why they were sending you?’ Finn says at last.
‘Yes.’
‘What did they say?’
‘You have a source, Finn, that’s what they said. It’s the highest priority to them. To us,’ I add, and wonder how I’m going to square all this with myself.
I look at him then.
‘It seems you’re not just the amiable joker you seem to be,’ I say. ‘It seems this source lies at the very heart of Moscow’s plans and he’s all yours.’
‘The Plan,’ Finn says.
‘Yes. The Plan. Patrushev knows now.’
Finn pauses and picks up a shell and seems to study it.
‘Do they know about Mikhail?’ he says.
‘Mikhail?’
‘Mikhail is what we call this source in London. You must write that in your first report to them.’
He squirms his foot into the sand.
‘So your job, then,’ he says carefully, ‘is to find out who Mikhail is. Perfect. We have breathing space. We can string them along for some time, keeping them waiting for that.’
‘To find the enemy within,’ I say.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘that’s why you’re here professionally.’ He turns and grins and then his face becomes serious.
‘I’ve missed you, Rabbit. I’m so happy with you. Is it the same for you?’
‘Can’t you tell?’
‘Can’t you tell me?’
I’m thinking of Vladimir, of my deceit, and the foul taste it leaves in my throat now.
I put my hand on his face and we look at each other.
‘I’ve missed you too, Finn.’
‘Good. So that’s all right then,’ he says, and smiles easily.
‘I have to tell you something,’ I say.
He looks at me as if he knows what I’m going to say, but I go on anyway.
‘You remember Vladimir?’
‘Your old school friend? The man your dad wanted you to marry?’
‘Yes.’
‘You haven’t gone and married him, have you?’
‘No. He’s my new case officer on you, Finn.’
‘Very clever of them.’
‘Yes,’ I agree, and know that Finn is right. It is very clever of them and I have to be careful with Vladimir.
‘We trained at the Forest for two weeks before I came out here,’ I say.
‘And you slept together.’
‘Yes, we did.’
Finn looks at me and kisses me lightly on the lips.
‘And that’s very clever of you, darling,’ he says.
There is no need to say more. He understands everything.
We get up and walk slowly back along the beach with our arms around each other. Finn talks in a businesslike way, but all his tension from before has gone. That is what the truth does, I think.
‘You have your arrangements to communicate with them?’ Finn says as we walk slowly.
‘I have a contact in London,’ I answer. ‘Another in Geneva, whichever is closer. I’m supposed to check in every eleven days, even if there’s nothing worth saying. We have our usual rules of contact,’ I say.
‘And Moscow?’ Finn says.
‘They’ll contact me if they want me to go to Moscow.’
‘Nothing set in stone, then,’ he replies.
‘In London there was a contact who kept in touch with one of the trade reps at our embassy there, but who’s now been recalled,’ I say hesitantly. ‘A low-level Russian businessman working on the edge of the City. His handler was one of our long-standing trade reps at the embassy, from the Forest.’
‘This contact was arrested by your people a short while ago, however. He was released and he’s been replaced by another “businessman”,’ I say.
‘Why was he arrested?’ Finn says.
‘He’d been spotted by the Service coming out of a public convenience in Hyde Park,’ I say. ‘He was still doing up his zip. That’s what alerted MI5, apparently. They’d found a package concealed in a cistern and were watching the place and saw this guy come out doing up his zip. You wouldn’t believe the fuss at the Forest. He’s really in the shit. According to us, the English don’t come out of public conveniences doing up their zips. The Forest believes that’s why he was spotted as a foreigner.’
I laugh and Finn joins me.
‘So there’s a new contact for you in London.’
‘He’s called Valentin Malenkov,’ I say. ‘Highly trained, very special to us, one of our very best, in fact. A perfect English speaker travelling on a Swiss passport under the name Franz Noiber. He’s Forest to the core.’
‘He’ll know that he should do up his zip, then,’ Finn says.
We walk on and stop, holding each other from time to time. It feels closer than we’ve ever been.
‘We have to make sure you deliver,’ Finn says.
‘Yes.’
‘Every ten days we’ll compile your report, the two of us together,’ he says. ‘You have to be useful. You have to give them good stuff. That way we’ll buy ourselves time.’
The last time we stop before we reach the huts, Finn holds my hands.
‘Are you ready to leave?’ he says. ‘We can just forget everything but us, if you like. I’ll stop this now if you’re ready to come with me. We can start a pig farm. If you’re ready to leave,’ he says.
I don’t reply. I can’t make the leap.
‘Patrushev told me they’d look after Nana for me,’ I say.
Finn looks at me, with sympathy in his eyes.
‘And what does Nana say?’
‘She said, “Would you rather spend your time with Finn or with Patrushev?” ’
Finn laughs.
‘I want to come,’ I say. ‘I will come.’
‘When you’re ready,’ Finn says, understanding my fears, and we walk back, stopping once to kiss each other for so long it was as if a premonition of bad things crouched over us and we clung to each other for shelter.