The Useful Idiot by John Sweeney

Author:John Sweeney [Sweeney, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Silvertail Books
Published: 2020-01-29T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

At ten o’clock sharp, Jones stood before the wrought iron gates of the British Embassy. Despite his hat, overcoat, scarf and suit, he shivered – and not just from the cold. The embassy stood directly across the Moskva river from the Kremlin. It had been the home of a fabulously wealthy Russian industrialist in the Nineteenth Century, seized during the Revolution and given to the British in the ‘20s to succour their good will. From this distance and this angle, mused Jones, you could be forgiven for thinking that the Kremlin was more fairy castle than seat of pitiless power. The forbidding walls and turrets seemed less oppressive from across the river, the white-walled palace within easier to see and more welcoming. Jones marked his observation down as an optical illusion. Immediately in front of him, the Moskva river was a field of ice, inching along and growling. That was more like it.

A Royal Marine in full dress uniform opened a side gate and Jones explained who he was and that he had an appointment with Ilver. In Jones’ briefcase was a selection of Evgenia’s lingerie and, beneath that, a round metal tin containing the film reel. The marine opened the gate, thought briefly about searching his briefcase, but decided against it; Jones’ spectacles conveyed an air of harmlessness, so in the end he didn’t bother. Jones followed the marine to the main door of the embassy proper. The door opened and behind it stood a preposterously young diplomat in an Oxford shirt, tie and sleeveless pullover.

“Good morning. Mr Jones?” The boy introduced himself as a Mr Plumley.

An ancient butler, a native Russian in a frock coat with skin as translucent as tracing paper, took Jones’ hat, scarf and overcoat and wandered off. Then, Plumley led Jones up a marble staircase and into a library populated with books no-one read. Once he was seated, Plumley offered Jones tea with milk, his voice squeaking as he did so. This was a very British luxury, unheard of in Russia, and Jones readily accepted.

A fire of two or three logs crackled in the hearth, throwing out not enough heat to warm the room. Jones wanted his coat back but the butler had disappeared. In one corner, a grandfather clock ticked; in another, a full length portrait of George V scowled down at the riff-raff. Paintings depicted soldiers in red defeating sundry foreigners: Blenheim, Waterloo, Agincourt.

Sipping his tea, Jones wondered how long his luck might last, how long it might be before the Cheka pounced and Borodin’s melancholic prediction came true. His thoughts moved to Attercliffe and his anxious wife. Attercliffe would be in the Lubyanka right now.

Then, yet again, he saw, in his mind’s eye, the woman in black laying her dead infant down in the snow in front of Lenin.

His teacup rattled in its saucer.

It was chilly in the room, true, but not that cold. Jones put cup and saucer to one side and studied his hands. They were trembling. Now

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