George risked all.

"After all, I mean ... you either have spyplanes or you don't."

It was enigmatic.

George had no idea whether the Russians had spyplanes. The Americans did. One had been shot down over the Soviet Union in 1960, resulting in egg-on-face as the Russians paraded the unfortunate pilot alive before the world's press. So much for the cyanide capsule.

It was enigmatic. Enigmatic to the point of meaninglessness but it did the trick. It turned Boris's enquiries inward. Meanwhile George had scared himself s.h.i.tless. He'd got c.o.c.ky and he'd nearly paid the price.

He lobbed another envelope of money into the bottom of Donna's wardrobe. He hadn't counted it and neither of them had spent any of it, but he reckoned they must have about 2,000 in there.

"I have to stop," he said. "Boris d.a.m.n near caught me tonight."

Two days later, George opened his copy of the Daily Telegraph on the train to work and page one chilled him to the briefcase.

"Russian Spy Plane Shot Down Over Aden"

He had reached Waterloo and was crossing the Hungerford footbridge to the Victoria Embankment before he managed to rea.s.sure himself with the notion that because it had been shot down, the USSR still didn't know what was (not) going on in the "fockin dyesert".

He told Donna, the next time they met, the next time they made love. He lay back in the afterglow and felt anxiety awaken from its erotically induced slumber.

"You see," he said. "I had to tell Boris something. There's nothing going on in the 'fockin dyesert'. But the Russians launched a spyplane to find out. On Boris's say-so. On my say-so. I mean, for all I know the Viet Cong are deploying more troops along the DMZ, the Chinese might be ma.s.sing their millions at the border with Hong Kong ... this is all getting ... out of hand."

Donna ran her fingers through his hair, brought her lips close to his ear, with that touch of moist breath that drove him wild.

"Y'know Georgie, you been luckier than you know."

"How so?"

"Supposin' there really had been something going on out in the 'fockin dyesert'?"

"Oh Christ."

"Don't bear thinkin' about, do it? But you're right. This is all gettin' outa hand. We need to do something."

"Such as?"

"Dunno. But let me think. I'm better at it than you are."

"Could you think quickly? Before I start World War III."

"Sssh, Georgie. Donna's thinkin'."

"It's like this," she said. "You want out, but the Russkis have enough on you to fit you up for treason, and then there's the Polaroid of you an' me in bed an' your wife to think about."

"I got the Polaroid back months ago."

"You did? Good. Now ... thing is, as I see it, they got you for selling them our secrets 'bout rockets an' 'at out East. Only you gave 'em saucepans and tea urns. So, what have they really got?"

"Me. They've got me, because saucepans and tea urns are just as secret as nukes. I'm still a traitor. I'll be the Klaus Fuchs of kitchenware."

"No. You're not. The other Horsfield is, 'cos that's who they think they're dealing with."

George could not see where this was headed.

"We gotta do two things, see off old Boris and put the other Horsfield in the frame. Give 'em the Horsfield they wanted in the first place."

"Oh G.o.d."

"No ... listen ... Boris thinks he's been dealing with Lt Col. Horsfield. What we gotta do is make the Colonel think he's dealing with Boris ... swap him for you and then blow the whistle."

"Or let the whistle blow," said George.

"How do you mean?"

"If I understand that cunning little mind of yours aright you mean to try and frame Horsfield."

"'S right."

"I know H. G. He's a total b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but he can't be scared or intimidated. We make any move against him, he catches even a whiff of Russian involvement, he'll blow the whistle himself."

"Y'know, that's even more than I hoped for. Let me try for the full house then. Is he what you might call a ladies' man?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, no offence, Georgie, but you was easy to pull. If I was to try and pull H. G., what would he do?"

"Oh, I see. Well if office gossip is to be believed he'd paint his a.r.s.e blue and s.h.a.g you under a lamp-post in Soho Square."

"Bingo," said Donna. "Bingo b.l.o.o.d.y bingo!"

They dipped into the wardrobe money for the first time.

"I can't do this myself, and I can't use the room in Bridle Lane. I'll pay a mate to do H. G., and I know a house in Marshall Street that's going under the wrecking ball any day now. It'll be perfect. I get a room kitted out so it looks like a regular pad and then we just abandon it. The grey area is knowing when we might get to H. G."

"It's Ted's birthday next week. Bound to be a pub and club crawl. I could even predict that at some point we'll all be in the same club you found me in."

"What would be H. G.'s type?"

"Now you mention it ... not you. He goes for blondes, blondes with big ..."

"t.i.ts?"

"Quite."

"OK, that narrows it down. I'll have to ask Judy. She'll want a ton for the job and another for the risk, but she'll do it."

Ted's birthday bash coincided with George's Boris night at the Berwick Street caff. Something was going right. G.o.d knows, they might even get away with this. "This" he wasn't at all sure what "this" was. He knew his own part in this, but the initiative had now pa.s.sed to Donna. She had planned the night's activity like a film script.

He slipped away early from Ted's party. Ted was three sheets to the wind anyway. H. G. was in full flight with a string of s.m.u.tty stories and the only risk was that he might get off with some woman before Judy pulled him. As he was leaving, a tall, busty blonde, another Jayne Mansfield or Diana Dors, cantilevered by state-of-the-art bra mechanics into a pink lambswool sweater that showed plenty of cleavage and looked as solid as Everest, came into the club. She winked at George, and carried on down the stairs without a word.

George went round to Bridle Lane.

It was a tale of two wigs.

Donna had a wig ready for him.

"You and Boris are about the same size. It's just a matter of hair colour. Besides, it's not as if H. G. will get a good look at you."

And a wig ready for herself. She was transformed into a pocket Marilyn Monroe.

He hated the waiting. They stood at the corner of Foubert's Place, looking down the length of Marshall Street. It was past nine when a staggering, three-quarters p.i.s.sed H. G. appeared on the arm of a very steady Judy. They stopped under a lamp-post. He didn't paint his a.r.s.e blue, but he groped her in public, his hand on her backside, his face half-buried in her cleavage.

George watched Judy gently reposition his hand at her waist and heard her say, "Not so fast, soldier, we're almost there."

"We are? b.l.o.o.d.y good show."

George hated H. G.

George hated H. G. for being so predictable.

Donna whispered.

"Ten minutes at the most. Judy'll pull a curtain to, when he's got his kit off. Now, are you sure you know how to work it?"

"It's just a camera like any other, Donna."

"Georgie we only got one chance."

"Yes. I know how to work it."

When the curtain moved, George tiptoed up the stairs, imagining Boris doing the same thing all those months ago as he prepared to spring the honeytrap.

At the bedroom door he could hear the baritone rumble of H. G.'s drunken sweet nothings.

"'S wonderful. 'S b.l.o.o.d.y amazing. t.i.ts. Marvellous things. If I had t.i.ts ... b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l ... I'd play with them all day."

Then, kick, flash, bang, wallop ... and H. G. was sprawled where he had been and he was uttering Boris's lines in the best Russian accent he could muster.

"You have ten minutes, Colonel Horsfield. You fail to meet me in the Penguin Cafe in Kingly Street, this goes to your wife."

He was impressed by his own timing. The Polaroid shot out of the bottom of the camera just as he said "wife".

H. G. was staring at him gla.s.sy-eyed. Judy grabbed her clothes and ran past him h.e.l.l-for-leather. Still, H. G. stared. Perhaps he was too drunk to understand what was happening.

"You have ten minutes, Colonel. Penguin Cafe, Kingly Street. Das Vidanye."

He'd no idea why he'd thrown in the "das vidanye" perhaps a desperate urge to sound more Russian than he had.

H. G. said, "I'll be there ... you Commie f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I'll be there."

Much to George's alarm he got up from the bed, seemingly less drunk, b.o.l.l.o.c.k-naked, stiff c.o.c.k swaying in its frenchie, and came towards him.

George fled. It was what Donna had told him to do.

Down in the street, George arrived just in time to see Judy pulling on her stilettoes and heading off towards Beak Street. Donna took the Polaroid from him, waved it in the air and looked for the image.

"Gottim," she said.

George looked at his watch. Didn't dare to raise his voice much above a whisper.

"I must hurry. I have to meet Boris."

"No. No, you don't. You leave Boris to me."

This wasn't part of the plan. This had never been mentioned.

"What?"

"Go back to the party."

"I don't ..."

"Find your mates. They must be in a club somewhere near. You know the pattern, booze, booze, strippers. Find 'em. Ditch the wig. Ditch the camera. Go back and make yourself seen."

She kissed him.

"And don't go down Berwick Street."

Donna stood awhile on the next corner, watched as H. G. emerged and saw him rumble off in the direction of Kingly Street. Then she went the other way, towards Berwick Street, and stood behind one of the market stalls that were scattered along the right-hand side.

She could see Boris. He was reading a newspaper, letting his coffee go cold and occasionally glancing at his watch. He was almost taking George's arrival for granted, but not quite.

She was rea.s.sured when he finally gave up and stood a moment on the pavement outside the caff, looking up at the stars and muttering something Russian. Really, he wasn't any taller than George, just a bit bigger in the chest and shoulders. What with the wig and flashbulb going off, all H. G. was likely to say was "some big b.u.g.g.e.r, sort of darkish, in a dark suit, didn't really get a good look, I'm afraid."

That was old Boris, a big, dark b.u.g.g.e.r in a dark suit.