Mightier Than the Sword

The first thing she did on entering the terminal building was to check the arrivals board. Little numbers and letters flicked over every few moments, supplying the latest information for each flight. The board indicated that passengers arriving from Amsterdam on BOAC 786 were now in baggage reclaim. But then she remembered that Harry had only taken a small overnight bag, as he hadn’t planned to be in Leningrad for more than a few hours, one night at the most. In any case, he was always among the first off the plane as he liked to be speeding down the motorway on his way back to Bristol before the last passengers had cleared customs. Made him feel he’d stolen time.

Could she have missed him, she wondered, as several passengers passed her, with bags displaying Amsterdam luggage tags. She was about to go in search of a telephone and call Giles when Harry finally appeared.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, throwing his arms around her. “I had no idea you’d be waiting for me. I thought you’d still be in court.”

“The judge let us go at four because it didn’t look as if the jury were going to reach a verdict today.”

Harry released her, and said, “Can I make the strangest request?”

“Anything, my darling.”

“Could we book into an airport hotel for a couple of hours?”

“We haven’t done that for some time,” said Emma, grinning.

“I’ll explain why later,” said Harry. He didn’t speak again until he’d signed the hotel register and they’d checked into their room.

Emma lay on the bed, watching as Harry sat at a little desk by the window, writing as if his life depended on it. She wasn’t allowed to speak, turn on the television, or even order room service, so, in desperation, she picked up the first chapter of what she assumed must be the latest William Warwick novel.

She was hooked from the first sentence. When Harry finally put down his pen, three and a half hours later, and slumped onto the bed beside her, all she said was, “Don’t say a word, just hand me the next chapter.”

Whenever I was required at the dacha (not that often), I always ate in the kitchen. A real treat, because Stalin’s chef, Spiridon Ivanovich Putin, would give me and the three tasters exactly the same food as was being served to Stalin and his guests in the dining room. That should hardly come as a surprise. The three tasters were just another example of Stalin’s paranoia, and his belief that someone must be trying to poison him. They would sit silently at the kitchen table, never opening their mouths except to eat. Chef Putin’s conversation was also limited, as he assumed that anyone who entered his domain—kitchen staff, waiters, guards, tasters—was almost certainly a spy, me included. When he did speak, which was never before the meal had been cleared away and the last guest had left the dining room, it would only ever be about his family, of whom he was inordinately proud, particularly his most recent grandson, Vladimir.

Once the guests had all departed, Stalin would retreat to his study and read until the early hours. A portrait of Lenin hung above his desk, a lamp illuminating his face. He loved reading Russian novels, often scribbling comments in the margins. If he couldn’t get to sleep he would slip out into the garden, prune his roses, and admire the peacocks that wandered through the grounds.