Winter of the World

‘Oh, we did, believe me,’ Bicks said. ‘You’ve been subjected to the most thorough investigation I have seen in twenty years with the Bureau.’

Greg gave him a sceptical look. ‘No kidding.’

‘Your kid’s doing well in school, isn’t he?’

Greg was shocked. Who could have told the FBI about Georgy? ‘You mean my godson?’ he said.

‘Greg, I said thorough. We know he’s your son.’

Greg was annoyed, but he suppressed the feeling. He had probed the personal secrets of numerous suspects during his time in Army security. He had no right to object.

‘You’re clean,’ Bicks went on.

‘I’m relieved to hear it.’

‘Anyway, our defector insisted the plans came from a scientist, rather than any of the normal army personnel working on the project.’

Greg said thoughtfully: ‘When I met Volodya in Moscow, he told me he had never been to the United States.’

‘He lied,’ said Bicks. ‘He came here in September 1945. He spent a week in New York. Then we lost him for eight days. He resurfaced briefly then went home.’

‘Eight days?’

‘Yeah. We’re embarrassed.’

‘It’s enough time to go to Santa Fe, stay a couple of days, and come back.’

‘Right.’ Bicks leaned forward across his desk. ‘But think. If the scientist had already been recruited as a spy, why wasn’t he contacted by his regular controller? Why bring someone from Moscow to talk to him?’

‘You think the traitor was recruited on this two-day visit? It seems too quick.’

‘Possibly he had worked for them before but lapsed. Either way, we’re guessing the Soviets needed to send someone whom the scientist already knew. That means there ought to be a connection between Volodya and one of the scientists.’ Bicks gestured at a side table covered with tan file folders. ‘The answer is in there somewhere. Those are our files on every one of the scientists who had access to those plans.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Go through them.’

‘Isn’t that your job?’

‘We’ve already done it. We didn’t find anything. We’re hoping you’ll spot something we’ve missed. I’ll sit here and keep you company, do some paperwork.’

‘It’s a long job.’

‘You’ve got all day.’

Greg frowned. Did they know . . . ?

Bicks said confidently: ‘You have no plans for the rest of the day.’

Greg shrugged. ‘Got any coffee?’

He had coffee and doughnuts, then more coffee, then a sandwich at lunchtime, then a banana mid-afternoon. He read every known detail about the lives of the scientists, their wives and families: childhood, education, career, love and marriage, achievements and eccentricities and sins.

He was eating the last bite of banana when he said: ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’

‘What?’ said Bicks.

‘Willi Frunze went to the Berlin Boys’ Academy.’ Greg slapped the file triumphantly down on the desk.

‘And . . . ?’

‘So did Volodya – he told me.’

Bicks thumped his desk in excitement. ‘School friends! That’s it! We’ve got the bastard!’

‘It’s not proof,’ said Greg.

‘Oh, don’t worry, he’ll confess.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Those scientists believe that knowledge should be shared with everyone, not kept secret. He’ll try to justify himself by arguing that he did it for the good of humanity.’

‘Maybe he did.’

‘He’ll go to the electric chair all the same,’ said Bicks.

Greg was suddenly chilled. Willi Frunze had seemed a nice guy. ‘Will he?’

‘You bet your ass. He’s going to fry.’

Bicks was right. Willi Frunze was found guilty of treason and sentenced to death, and he died in the electric chair.

So did his wife.

(iii)

Daisy watched her husband tie his white bow tie and slip into the tailcoat of his perfectly fitting dress suit. ‘You look like a million dollars,’ she said, and she meant it. He should have been a movie star.

She remembered him thirteen years earlier, wearing borrowed clothes at the Trinity Ball, and she felt a pleasant frisson of nostalgia. He had looked pretty good then, she recalled, even though his suit was two sizes too big.

They were staying in her father’s permanent suite at the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Washington. Lloyd was now a junior minister in the British Foreign Office, and he had come here on a diplomatic visit. Lloyd’s parents, Ethel and Bernie, were thrilled to be looking after two grandchildren for a week.

Tonight Daisy and Lloyd were going to a ball at the White House.

She was wearing a drop-dead dress by Christian Dior, pink satin with a dramatically spreading skirt made of endless folds of flaring tulle. After the years of wartime austerity she was delighted to be able to buy gowns in Paris again.