The Longest Pleasure (22 page)

IV

"Would you like me to drive?' Galitsin asked,
"
You
must be very tired.'

Nancy Connaught gunned the engine, got involved in a wheelspin which carried the Pontiac halfway across the road, corrected with a vigorous twist. 'I'll manage. I enjoy driving for long periods. You're not bored?'

'I have found today fascinating. But we have come a very long way. And I am thinking of the drive back, after dark.'

'I'll let you do it then, if you like. Would you care to light me another cigarette?'

He was in practice now. He s
tuck the cigarette between his li
ps, pressed the dashboard lighter, waited for it to pop. He took the cigarette from his mouth and placed it between her lips, leaned back and looked out of his window at the rolling hills, patched in brown and white, the soil already ploughed, and covered with a smattering of snow. It was coming up to sunset, but this was going to be disappointing; there was too much cloud, and the colour was a faded red. On the other hand, he thought that in the summer, when all these fields would be covered in green, and perhaps graz
ing cattl
e, this country must be extraordinarily pretty.

Nancy Connaught glanced at him through a haze of blue smoke. 'You look broody.' 'I was admiring the scenery.'

'My favourite county, Dorset I thought maybe you were thinking that I smoke too much.'

'I do think so. But that is because I do not smoke at all.'

‘
You are just too toler
ant to be true, Alexander Petro
vich. Either you have absolutely no character or it is all an act'

'Galitsin smiled. 'Which do you think?' 'That it is all an act'

'Otherwise you would not be interested in me? I am sorry. I am tolerant of other people because I know how much there is wrong with myself.'

"Big deal. Self-analysis is dangerous. Writers indulge in it, as a professional hazard, and a large proportion of them go round the bend.'

'Chess-players also have to analyse their own personalities, Nancy.'

'And from what I've heard, a fair number of them get certified as well. What happened yesterday?' Galitsin frowned. 'Yesterday?'

'That game, stupid. Do you know there's a headline in both the
Sunday Times
and the
Observer?
Something like, Russian Army Champion agrees draw in won position. Jeopardises tournament victory. Why did you do it?'

'I suddenly did not feel like playing chess any more. I wanted to get out into the fresh air.'

'As at least one of my Limey acquaintances would say, lumme. What did old man Rauser have to say?'

'For the first time in our brief acquaintance he said nothing at all. That means that he must have thought a great deal.'

'And this means trouble for you?'

Galitsin shrugged. 'I do not know. He went up to London yesterday afternoon. Something about meeting a plane. But he had not returned when we left. There is the sea again.'

'Lyme Bay. It's not far now.'

'It ? I did not know we were going somewhere.'

'I thought I'd surprise you. Isn't that sea an evil colour?'

The afternoon sun was fading, and the water was slate blue, not breaking, but heaving gently in a large swell towards the shore. To the south the clouds were piling one on top of the other, fading from grey near the horizon to white tips thrusting upwards into the blue sky.

'I know nothing of the sea,' Galitsin confessed. 'But I would estimate there is going to be some bad weather quite soon. I suggest we turn back now, Nancy.'

'Just five minutes... oops.' They rounded a bend a shade too fast. The narrow road came towards them like a torrent of water; Nancy twisted the wheel, the Pontiac spun round, travelled backwards for a few feet, and then slid gently into the parapet at the side of the road.

'Oh, God damn and blast this car,' she muttered, trying drive one and drive two and low and then reverse again, and only making matters worse, while the engine screamed and a sudden flurry of snowflakes whispered on to the windshield. At last she allowed the outraged engine to idle. 'Guess what?'

'I will look.' Galitsin got out, put on his cap, wished he had thought to bring his schlem. The rear wheels were half buried in a patch of boggy ground beside the road, having broken through the
thin layer of ice and sunk to th
e axle.

The whole rear of the car rested on the ground. 'I'm afraid it will need to be pulled out by another car.'

'Oh, great.' She pulled her leopard-skin coat tight, switched off the ignition. 'Lucky we got this far.'

'There is help close at hand?'

'There is sustenance close at hand, I promise you that. Let's take a walk.' She held out her gloved hand, and he took it in his. They walked up the middle of the road, heads bent against the freezing breeze which had sprung up
over the sea, driving the snowfl
akes against them. 'I figure this is nothing to you,' she shouted.

'I have walked in the snow before,' he agreed. "But it is pleasanter not to. And there is going to be a lot of snow.'

The white clouded down, and the end of the lane was lost to view. The snow gathered on the road, clung to their boots, Galitsin's trousers, Nancy's stockings, accumulated in drifts against the hedge.

'It would be safer to go back and stay with the car,' Galitsin suggested. But when he looked over his shoulder the car had disappeared.

'Quit worrying. We turn down here.' She left the lane, led him down the path, pushed the gate aside, took the key from her pocket.
'Voila!'

He gaz
ed at the cottage. ‘
You were coming here all the time.'

'Of course. I call it the Passion Pit.' She opened the door. 'Are you any good with wood fires?'

Galitsin knelt in front of the hearth, selected a log of wood and several smaller branches from the box beside the chimney-piece. All were dry and crisp. There were even several rolled newspapers, including
The Times,
he was amused to see. He thought this whole thing could be very amusing, were he sure how he wanted it to turn out. But first it was important to know how Nancy wanted, or intended, it to turn out. He struck a match and smoke drifted up the chimney.

'There's an electric fire by the sofa,' Nancy called from the kitchen. 'Put it on as well.'

He did so, and some of the bite left the air. He took off his greatcoat and cap, hung them by the front door, added his gloves, slapped his hands together. Nancy came out of the kitchen, carrying two mugs.

'Hot buttered rum,' she said. 'It really is the best thing on an afternoon like this.
Ciao.'

He sipped, and the hot liquid burned his throat. He watched Nancy going around the room, drawing the curtains. Then she switched on the light, smiled at him. 'I'm never sure those darned things are going to work.'

Galitsin sat on the sofa. 'What would you have done if the car had not skidded? Or was that deliberate?'

'Sort of.' She lit a cigarette. 'I guess you're furious.'

'I do not know what I am. Interested. But this snow is not going to stop for a long time. Do you have a telephone?'

'No.'

'We shall be here for at least twelve hours.'

'Months, I shouldn't wonder.' She took off her boots, then a stocking. She saw him looking at her legs. 'Are you a prude?'

'I don't know. Soldiers are inclined to be very prudish where their own women are concerned and savages in every other respect.'

'Alexander Petrovich, you are far too deep for me. I'm just a simple girl.' She took off the other stocking, wriggled her toes. 'Listen to that wind. When they find us we shall both be dead, locked in each other's arms. Will we be locked in each other's arms, Alex?'

'Is that all you wish?'

'Oh, for Jesus' sake, don't look at me like that. I'm doing a job of work, if you must know. Terribly badly. So badly, I could hardly do it worse, if I tried. So I shall.' She got up, leaned over his chair, placed one hand on each of his shoulders. 'Alexander Petrovich Galitsin, are you a spy?'

He drank the last of his hot buttered rum. He realised that he had known she would eventually ask him that, since their first talk in the pub in Hastings. Just as he had always known what he would reply. 'I do not think I can be classified as a spy, technically. I am an agent of Soviet intelligence.'

'It's the same thing,
you know.' 'I'm not a very good
agent.'

That makes two of us. But I'm glad you owned up at once. I really wouldn't have known how to go on, if you'd given me an old-fashioned look. Another?'

'I should like that very
much.' He poked the fire, sent
flames roaring up the chimney. 'May I take off my tunic?'

'Take off as much as you like,' she said from the kitchen. 'I'm not a spy either, of course. I have a friend in British Intelligence. Name of Alan Shirley. Ring a bell?'

'No.'

You have met. During the war. He finds the whole thing very odd. You know, your people have never entered anyone for any section other than the Premier at Hastings, and never anyone ranked less than a grandmaster. And then that business about your disappearance and nervous breakdown in Budapest. You have no idea how close to the ground these Britishers keep their ears.'

'The Fourth Bureau has a very high respect for British intelligence. It is one of the oldest systems in the world. And you work for this man Shirley?'

'Good God, no. I sleep with him, now and then.' She handed him his mug, sat on the sofa, legs drawn up. 'But apart from that we're friends. And what the hell? I have nothing going for the Soviet Union. So I agreed to see what I could find out about you.'

"Bringing me down here was his idea ?'

She shook her head. 'He is going to be furious. Because, if you did happen to be a spy, I suppose you wouldn't be above doing me dirt. Say, I suppose that could still happen.'

Galitsin sipped, sighed, sat beside her on the settee. 'As I said, I am not much of a spy. I work for the Fourth ' Bureau, yes. I am the only person who knows a woman they wish to contact. A woman I met in Budapest, She was involved in the revolt there, and through her they hope to reach the group they feel is responsible for that trouble, and for a great deal of the trouble in Eastern Europe. I am to advertise in
The Times
as soon as the tournament is over. Sending me to the tournament was to attract a lot of publicity, let the world know that I was in England.'

'And they figured this girl would answer your advertisement?'

'If not her, then another.'

Nancy Connaught lay down, her head on Galitsin's lap. Her skirt fell back to her thighs as she crossed her legs on the arm of the sofa. 'An important one?'

‘
To me. I spent the fortnight of the Hungarian revolt in her bedroom. Oh, I was wounded, and could not really get out. But I did not wish to.'

'So it was help the big boys or be shot.'

Galitsin smiled. 'They do not shoot Heroes of the Soviet Union. I would have remained mad.' He rested his left hand on her knee, allowed it to slide down the inside of her thigh. Her flesh was smoother than Irena Szen's.

Nancy Connaught took off her glasses, placed them on the floor beside the settee. 'They're a trusting lot.'

'Do you think so? I have a sister in Moscow.'

'Of bastards, is what I was going to say.' She reached down, lifted his hand, placed it under her skirt, on the silky softness of her pants, felt his fingers move as they sought the elastic. 'What are you going to do ?'

Galitsin touched hair, rested for a moment, and then withdrew his hand. 'Pray that Irena does not answer the advertisement.'

'She will, you know.'

'No.' He lifted her head, got up, knelt in front of the fire, thrust the poker into the flames, once, twice, watched the sparks. 'She knows what is happening.'

Nancy Connaught leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin on hands. 'And you?'

'Maybe next time I will be a better spy. If there is going to be a next time.'

'You mean this little adventure may have shot you full of holes?'

He shrugged, his back to her. 'It will be difficult to explain this evening, certainly. Rauser is already suspicious of you. Of my relationship with you.'