Winter of the World

He watched McHugh constantly throughout the first half of the concert, not wanting to take his eyes off him. The physicist did not look at the people either side of him. He seemed absorbed in the music, and only moved his gaze from the stage to look lovingly at Mrs McHugh, who was a pale English rose. Had Oppenheimer simply been wrong about McHugh? Or, more subtly, was Oppenheimer’s accusation a distraction to divert suspicion away from himself?

Bicks was watching, too, Greg knew. He was upstairs in the dress circle. Perhaps he had seen something.

In the interval, Greg followed the McHughs out and stood in the same line for coffee. Neither the dowdy couple nor the two old ladies were anywhere nearby.

Greg felt thwarted. He did not know what to conclude. Were his suspicions unfounded? Or was it simply that this visit by the McHughs was innocent?

As he and Margaret were returning to their seats, Bill Bicks came up beside him. The agent was middle-aged, a little overweight, and losing his hair. He wore a light-grey suit that had sweat stains under the armpits. He said in a low voice: ‘You were right.’

‘How do you know?’

‘That guy sitting next to McHugh.’

‘In a grey striped suit?’

‘Yeah. He’s Nikolai Yenkov, a cultural attaché at the Soviet Embassy.’

Greg said: ‘Good God!’

Margaret turned around. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ Greg said.

Bicks moved away.

‘You’ve got something on your mind,’ she said as they took their seats. ‘I don’t believe you heard a single bar of the Saint-Saëns.’

‘Just thinking about work.’

‘Tell me it’s not another woman, and I’ll forget it.’

‘It’s not another woman.’

In the second half he began to feel anxious. He had seen no contact between McHugh and Yenkov. They did not speak, and Greg saw nothing pass from one to the other: no file, no envelope, no roll of film.

The symphony came to an end and the conductor took his bows. The audience began to file out. Greg’s spy hunt was a washout.

In the lobby, Margaret went to the ladies’ room. While Greg was waiting, Bicks approached him.

‘Nothing,’ Greg said.

‘Me neither.’

‘Maybe it’s a coincidence, McHugh sitting by Yenkov.’

‘There are no coincidences.’

‘Perhaps there was a snag. A wrong code word, say.’

Bicks shook his head. ‘They passed something. We just didn’t see it.’

Mrs McHugh also went to the ladies’ room and, like Greg, McHugh waited nearby. Greg studied him from behind a pillar. He had no briefcase, no raincoat under which to conceal a package or a file. But all the same, something about him was wrong. What was it?

Then Greg realized. ‘The newspaper!’ he said.

‘What?’

‘When Barney came in he was carrying a newspaper. They did the crossword while waiting for the show. Now he doesn’t have it!’

‘Either he threw it away – or he passed it to Yenkov, with something concealed inside.’

‘Yenkov and his wife have left already.’

‘They may still be outside.’

Bicks and Greg ran for the door.

Bicks shoved his way through the crowd still filing out of the exits. Greg stayed close behind. They reached the sidewalk outside and looked both ways. Greg could not see Yenkov, but Bicks had sharp eyes. ‘Across the street!’ he cried.

The attaché and his dowdy wife were standing at the kerb, and a black limousine was approaching them slowly.

Yenkov was holding a folded newspaper.

Greg and Bicks ran across the road.

The limousine stopped.

Greg was faster than Bicks and reached the far sidewalk first.

Yenkov had not noticed them. Unhurriedly, he opened the car door then stepped back to let his wife get in.

Greg threw himself at Yenkov. They both fell to the ground. Mrs Yenkov screamed.

Greg scrambled to his feet. The chauffeur had got out of the car and was coming around it, but Bicks yelled: ‘FBI!’ and held up his badge.

Yenkov had dropped the newspaper. Now he reached for it. But Greg was faster. He picked it up, stepped back, and opened it.

Inside was a sheaf of papers. The top one was a diagram. Greg recognized it immediately. It showed the working of an implosion trigger for a plutonium bomb. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘This is the very latest stuff !’

Yenkov jumped into the car, slammed the door, and locked it from the inside.

The chauffeur got back in and drove away.

(iii)

It was Saturday night, and Daisy’s apartment in Piccadilly was heaving. There had to be a hundred people there, she thought, feeling pleased.

She had become the leader of a social group based on the American Red Cross in London. Every Saturday she gave a party for American servicemen, and invited nurses from St Bart’s hospital to meet them. RAF pilots came too. They drank her unlimited Scotch and gin, and danced to Glenn Miller records on her gramophone. Conscious that it might be the last party the men ever attended, she did everything she could to make them happy – except kiss them, but the nurses did plenty of that.