Mightier Than the Sword

The moment Harry stepped inside the shop, he could see why Mrs. Babakov had chosen this particular establishment in which to secrete her treasure. It was almost as if they didn’t want to sell anything. An elderly woman was seated behind the counter, her head in a book. Harry smiled at her, but she didn’t even look up when the bell rang above the door.

He took a couple of books down from a nearby shelf and pretended to peruse them as he edged his way slowly to the back of the shop, his heart beating a little faster with each step he took. Would it still be there? Had someone already bought it, only to discover when they got home that they’d got the wrong book? Had another customer captured the prize and destroyed Uncle Joe for fear they might be caught with it? He could think of a dozen reasons why the three-thousand-mile round trip could turn out to be a wasted journey. But for the moment, hope still triumphed over expectation.

When he finally reached the bookcase on which Mrs. Babakov had said she’d hidden her husband’s work, he closed his eyes and prayed. He opened his eyes to find that Tess of the d’Urbervilles was no longer in its place; just a gap covered with a thin layer of dust between A Tale of Two Cities and Daniel Deronda. Mrs. Babakov had made no mention of Daniel Deronda.

He glanced back toward the counter, to see the old woman turning a page. Standing on tiptoe, he stretched up and eased A Tale of Two Cities off the top shelf, accompanied by a shower of dust that sprinkled down on him. When he opened it, he thought he might have a heart attack, because it was not a copy of Dickens’s work but a slim volume by Anatoly Babakov.

Not wishing to draw attention to his prize, he took two other novels from the same shelf, Greenmantle by John Buchan and Jamaica Inn by Daphne du Maurier, and pretended to browse as he made his way slowly toward the counter. He almost felt guilty interrupting the old woman as he placed the three books on the counter in front of her.

She opened each of them in turn and checked the prices. Mrs. Babakov had even penciled in the price. If she’d turned one more page, he would have been caught. She didn’t. Using her fingers as an adding machine, she said, “Eight rubles.”

Harry handed her two five-ruble notes, having been warned when he was in Moscow for the conference that shopkeepers had to report anyone who attempted to purchase goods with foreign currency and, more important, that they were to refuse the sale and confiscate the money. He thanked her as she handed him his change. By the time he left the shop, she’d turned another page.

“Back to the airport,” said Harry as he climbed into the waiting taxi. The driver looked surprised, but swung obediently around and set out on the return journey.

Harry opened the book once again to check that it hadn’t been an illusion. The thrill of the chase was replaced by a feeling of triumph. He turned to the first page and began reading. All those hours spent studying Russian were finally proving worthwhile. He turned the page.

An early evening traffic jam meant the journey back to the airport took far longer than he’d originally anticipated. He began to check his watch every few minutes, fearful that he might miss the plane. By the time the taxi dropped him at the airport, he had reached chapter seven and the death of Stalin’s second wife. He handed another five rubles to the driver and didn’t wait for the change, but ran into the airport and followed the signs for the BOAC counter.

“Can you get me on the nine ten back to London?”

“First or economy?” asked the booking clerk.

“First.”

“Window or aisle?”

“Window, please.”

“Six A,” she said, handing him a ticket.

It amused Harry that he would be flying back in the same seat he’d occupied for the incoming flight.

“Do you have any luggage to check in, sir?”

“No, just this,” he said, holding up his bag.

“The flight is due to take off shortly, sir, so it might be wise to make your way through to customs.”

Harry wondered how many times a day she delivered that particular line. He was happy to obey her suggestion and, as he passed a bank of telephones, his thoughts turned to Emma and Mrs. Babakov, but he would have to wait until he was back in London before he could tell them the news.

He was only a couple of strides away from passport control when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned to find two heavily built young policemen standing on either side of him.

“Would you come with me,” said one of the officers, confident that Harry spoke Russian.

“Why?” asked Harry. “I’m on my way back to London and I don’t want to miss my flight.”

“We just need to check your bag. If there are no irregularities, you’ll have more than enough time to catch your flight.”