The Cilla Rose Affair

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Saturday, 17 August 1991

The mood, Evan thought, matched the day: raincoats and umbrellas, grey skies, traffic lights reflected on wet pavement, tires sloshing.

The service had been brief, the attendance small. Expatriate Soviets, most of them elderly, some white-haired Poles and Ukrainians, half a dozen locals—neighbours, he would have guessed. Yuri Gregchenko's body had been cremated, the ashes claimed by a relative who had travelled at great expense from somewhere behind the rapidly disintegrating Iron Curtain, a weary-looking woman with untidy hair.

There, too, was Victor Barnfather from MI5. A courtesy call. Gregchenko was Barnfather's most famous defector. Had made Barnfather's career, had propelled him up the corporate ladder in record time, had guaranteed Barnfather a place in the Who's Who of Secret Spydom.

There were others from the secret world in attendance whose faces Evan recognized, though their names were by now somewhat hazy in his mind. Agents long retired. Sleepers who had never been called into active service. A Surbiton grandmother who had been on the KGB's payroll for years.

Each paid their own private respects and departed quietly, as was their habit, seeking little attention, attracting only the disaffected interest of passing motorists.

Walking back to his car in the rain, Evan was offered the protection of a large black umbrella.

"Nicholas," he said. "How are you?"

"There's another one gone," the DG of Canada's Special Overseas Intelligence Unit replied, philosophically. "The Cold War relics. Dropping like flies. One more defecting Soviet who long ago ran out of entertaining stories." He patted his pockets, and found what he wanted. "I understand in Moscow they're plotting the overthrow of Gorbachev. Have a sweet."

"Thank you," Evan said.

Nicholas Armstrong had spent a good many years in London. His nautical grey beard and gold-rimmed spectacles often caused his newer subordinates to mistake him for a retired man of the sea. His portly countenance and passionate fondness for blackcurrant fruit gums tempered the illusion with a certain sense of benevolence. He reminded Evan, as they circumnavigated the puddles in the parking lot, of Peter Ustinov.

"I've half a mind to retire," Nicholas said.

Evan cast him a dubious, sideways glance.

"What, I've amused you? Here we are, Evan, a couple of old spies, not quite worn out but well on our way. Do you know, ever since the Wall came down, I've felt positively ancient."

"You don't look it," Evan answered, humouring him.

"Yes, well, you don't look it either, but that's beside the point, isn't it? I feel old. And I can tell you the precise moment, in fact, when the sensation came over me—it was when Gorby made that speech to the opening sitting of the Supreme Soviet. CNN had the foresight to cover it live. There I was, in front of my television, watching the stunned looks on the faces of those starched, old-guard soldiers as their esteemed leader went on about democracy and free market economics, and I don't mind telling you, Evan, I felt redundant."

"I actually found most of that rather fascinating, Nicholas."

"Yes, you would. I won't argue with you—it was history in the making. All the generals with their rows of ribbons, and the camera cutting to their dumbfounded reactions. The change was happening, right before their eyes—right before our eyes. The beginning of the end, live on CNN." He shook his head. "Who'd have believed it back when we were in the thick of it, Evan. The Communists self-destructing, the Wall coming down, the Soviet Union coming apart at the seams."