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  Bebur spoke to John as they walked along the shiny corridors. "This is one of the best hospitals. You are lucky. When Lenin set up our health system it was the wonder of the world - free health care for everyone. For the first time ordinary people didn't have to choose between food and medicine. But unfortunately with Stalin's push for industrial development and military superiority, our health system slipped behind. I am sorry to say."

  Bebur was not voicing the Soviet line that everything was perfect. It seemed to imply a friendliness and trust. "Sometimes, there is not even hot water at some provincial hospitals."

  They arrived at the cardiac ward. Lines of beds occupied both sides of the rooms. Doctors and nurses busied themselves talking, examining and writing.

  John took his mother's hand. "He'll be ok."

  Bebur nodded at William's doctor and said, "I want to see the physician in charge. Please."

  The doctor scurried off towards a grey haired man.

  John's mother saw her husband in one of the beds and with a cry ran off towards him. Karen went with her. John stayed back with Bebur and Yelena to see what the physician in charge would say.

  The grey haired doctor in a white coat with a clipboard came towards them with a smile. "Good day Comrade Gelashvili," he said and shook his hand. Their guide had told him who Bebur was. "And hello to you too," he said to John and shook his hand. "And to you too Comrade," he said to Yelena but didn't shake her hand.

  "How is he?" asked John in Russian. The doctor smiled again, "He will be fine. He has had a minor heart attack. After a short recuperation he should be fit to go home."

  "Good," nodded John. "Thank you."

  Bebur said, "Yes, thank you doctor but this ward is not good enough for our guest."

  The doctor frowned. "I'm sorry?"

  "I would like him to have a private room. If that is not too much of a problem." Bebur reached inside his jacket and, as if he were much practised, took out several large denomination rouble notes and passed them to the doctor. The doctor took the money discreetly, if this was a well oiled procedure. "Of course," he said, "I will arrange it straight away." He walked off and they went over to where his mother was sitting by William's bed, holding his hand.

  John said, "The doctor says you're going to be fine."

  William was whey faced but he managed a crooked smile. "It must hae been that beer you recommended."

  "Aye maybe," said John.

  Bebur turned to John and said, "I must leave now. I have to go to work. But if there are any difficulties with papers and bureaucracy in getting your father home safely to Scotland, please ring me. I will arrange everything."

  John said, "I don't know how to thank you. I'll pay you back."

  Bebur laughed. "I wanted to help you. I know in the West you do not think highly of the Soviet Union but we do have some compassion."

  John shook his head. "I never doubted it. You've been very kind."

  "But as I said, I must leave. I will take Yelena."

  Yelena took her chance to talk to John while Karen was distracted at the bedside talking to William. "I hope you are ok John. I hope your father is well."

  He smiled. "He will be. Thanks again for everything you did."

  She blushed. "I would have done it for anyone."

  "But thanks for doing it for me," he leaned in and gave her a fraternal kiss. She stepped back and put her hand up to her cheek. Her eyes were moist.

  "Come Yelena," said Bebur.

  "I'll see you soon," said John

  Karen turned and looked as they departed. "Bye Yelena," she said but Yelena didn't turn back.

  John rolled his eyes. "No need to be bitchy. She really helped us."

  "Yes, lover boy. I could see the stars in her eyes from here."

  "I don't think it's like that."

  "Isn't it?"

  He went and sat down at one of the three chairs beside William's bed. His mother said, "What a kind man."

  "Yes," nodded John. "Bebur's ok."

  1974: Durham: In his final year, John was living in digs on Claypath. Frankton had graduated with a First in Mathematics and was now doing his PhD. John hadn't done much about getting a job and was now entertaining the idea of doing postgraduate study if only to prolong the student life. Karen was a teacher, working at a Secondary School in Bishop Auckland which she was finding difficult.

  One Saturday morning an letter arrived. It was expensive stationary with the address neatly typed. He opened it and saw a thick, single sheet of paper with a Ministry of Defence crest and an address at Admiralty Arch. It asked John whether he would be interested in a job with them and if so could he reply by return. They would send him a rail warrant to pay for his travel to London. It was signed by a Mr A Clayton in an illegible squiggle, only decipherable by referring to the typed name below it.

  He showed Frankton the letter. Frankton was eating toast. Peering over John's shoulder through his thick spectacles, he said, "Looks dodgy. Very hush-hush."

  "Yeah, that's what I thought. I don't think I'll reply."

  Frankton said, "Sounds like a job offer from the Secret Police."

  John read the letter again.

  "You're not really thinking about it are you? Just burn it."

  "I need a job mate."

  "You don't need that kind of a job - spying on the workers to help the rich get richer by screwing them down. Keeping us all in order. I thought better of you than that," said Frankton.

  "I've got no money Billy. Karen wants to get married. She wants kids."

  "Sell out."

  "It's what normal people want."

  "Normal people get fucked over by the bankers and their Conservative friends. Don't go and work for them."

  A week later, another letter arrived as mysterious as the first also signed by Mr A Clayton although the squiggle was noticeably different from that on the first letter. John exchanged the rail warrant for a train ticket and caught the express train to London from Durham, stopping only at York, Leeds, Peterborough and London King's Cross. From King's Cross with its air of menace, cheap fast food stores and ragged looking whores he caught the Tube - going via the Northern Line to Charing Cross station and there via a short walk across the bottom of Trafalgar Square to Spring Gardens - a gloomy narrow side street to the left of Admiralty Arch with its Portland stone facing and Latin inscription to a dead monarch.

  There was a security guard who examined his letter with its instructions on where and when he should turn up. In a quiet voice the man in his dark uniform with shiny peaked cap told John to sit down and wait. The man picked up a telephone and spoke in a voice too quiet to be overheard. He put down the phone and went back to reading something. A copy of the Times sat there on a low table in the middle of the room in case he wanted to read it but he was too nervous. The waiting room was panelled in dark wood. The floor was made of black and white tiles all looking like they dated back to the reign of the great queen herself. The time went slowly. To fend off anxiety, he counted the tiles. Every now again men in sober suits and women in sensible dresses would come and go, nodding to the guard. They all knew what they were doing here. Then the phone rang and the guard picked it up. In a murmur he conversed with whoever was on the other end of the line. Then he spoke to John, "Mr Gilroy, if you would like to go through now."

  He gestured to the door. Not unfriendly, but without a smile. There was the same click of the door lock releasing that he had heard when the other people had gone through. He stood up and as if entering another secret world, John pushed open the door and stepped through into a corridor that looked almost exactly the same to the waiting room. A man in a grey suit was waiting for him. He looked military - short, greying hair, neat moustache - in fact everything about him was neat. He had a folded white handkerchief in his breast pocket. He extended a scrubbed clean hand to John and welcomed him to the interview.

  "Mr Gilroy, or may I call you John?"

  "Of course, John's fine."

  "I am Ant
hony Clayton. If you'd follow me, there is a little test we'd like you to carry out first. Just through in this room."

  He followed Mr Clayton who pushed a dark wooden door open. Behind it was a small room with a table and a chair. There was a tape machine on the table and a large reel of tape loaded ready to play. There was also a pair of headphones, sheets of paper and a pencil. A woman stood beside the chair. "Would you like a glass of water Mr Gilroy?" she said.

  John's mouth was dry. "Yes, please," he said, "If you don't mind."

  "Of course not. I'll go and get it."

  Mr Clayton indicated for him to sit down. "This will take about half an hour. There is a tape here and I'd like you to listen to it and translate what you hear. Write it down on the paper in front of you. I will come back and collect your translation. After that there will be an interview with a panel of three." Mr Clayton smiled. "Please don't be nervous. There's nothing to worry about."

  The woman came back with the water and explained how the machine worked. With a smile she left him alone. He put on the headphone, clicked the on switch and watched while the tape spooled from the reel that was a third full to the empty one. There was a click, a hiss of static and then a voice spoke in an educated Russian voice. It was a ten minute clip of someone describing a holiday trip to Odessa. John had little trouble translating it and wrote it down in his undisciplined handwriting. He finished long before the end of his allotted time and went over the handwriting to make it more legible. Then he sat and looked at the machine and the wall until the woman came back for him.

  She asked if he were finished and she then led him through to a larger room where three men in suits sat. One was Clayton, the others said their names but as they were probably false, John didn't bother remembering them.

  They asked him questions about his studies and about his course.

  "Durham's a lovely city. My brother studied law there," said the dark haired man with a cultured public school accent. "He was in the boating club. Do any rowing?"

  There were days when John had hired out a rowing boat at Lochrin Basin in Edinburgh to impress Karen so he nodded. "I wasn't on University Team though."

  "We can't all make it to the Varsity Team," laughed the fair-haired man with a cultured public school accent.

  "Planning to marry?" said the dark haired man.

  "I'm hoping to. Just wanted to get myself established with a job."

  "Very sensible," said Clayton.

  The door opened and the woman came in with an envelope that she handed to Clayton. She smiled broadly at John. Clayton opened the envelope. "The results of your language test," he said.

  "Ah," said John.

  Clayton smiled broadly. He handed slip of paper that had been in the envelope to his colleagues. The dark haired man smiled broadly. The fair-haired man smiled broadly. "Well done, John. 100%!"

  John blushed. "Ah good."

  "So you're a good linguist. Excellent. What about Russia in general? It's important for people doing this job." They didn't explain what the job was.

  "Yes," said the fair-haired man. He looked at a piece of paper with handwritten notes in front of him. "For example, would you give your lady host at a dinner party yellow roses?"

  John smiled. "No, yellow flowers are bad luck. Whereas in Britain they mean friendship."

  The fair-haired man coughed. "I didn't know that. In Britain I mean. The other is on the note. Very interesting."

  John nodded. "My girlfriend has a book on the language of flowers."

  The dark-haired man now spoke up. "And what do Russians eat as their Christmas dinner?"

  "Well, of course they don't celebrate Christmas in the Soviet Union. The Orthodox have a special supper on Christmas Eve - which is in January of course. Because it is still a fast, it is a meal without meat. They start with kutya a kind of sweet porridge.""

  Clayton nodded. "Impressive - you know your stuff." He turned to the dark-haired man and said, "These questions are a bit generic aren't they?"

  The dark-haired man nodded. "We use them for all the linguists."

  "Anyway," said the fair-haired man. "I wanted to ask you about Marxism. You must have come across it in your studies."

  John said, "Well of course it is the Soviet Union and I did study Soviet Literature, so I am aware of it."

  "Appeal to you much?"

  "The dictatorship of the Proletariat?"

  The dark haired man nodded fervently. "Indeed."

  John paused. "I'm not keen on dictatorship of any kind."

  The three men shot glances at each other and smiled. It was the right answer. They wanted to employ a good Russian linguist and they wanted nothing to complicate that for them.

  "Of course. What about your politics? Are you much of a marcher - a protester?"

  "I haven't been no."

  "Good, good. Would you say you are political?"

  John shrugged. "I vote Labour. I hope that isn't a problem."

  Mr Clayton shook his head vigorously. "No, of course not. The Labour Party is a democratic party. There isn't an issue there."

  "Do you mind waiting outside while we have chat, John?"

  John shook his head. He got up.

  "I'm sure Mary will get you a cup of tea."

  "No, I'm fine. I'll read the paper."

  "Jolly good. Shouldn't be long."

  They took about fifteen minutes, which John didn't know whether it was a good or bad sign. He didn't read the paper, but instead stared at his hands and his shoes. He didn't care which way the interview went, he told himself. If he failed that would solve a problem and he wouldn't have to explain to his mother and Karen why he hadn't taken the job. When Clayton came out to beckon him in, he had a broad smile on his face. The two other men had gone but Mary was sitting at the table.

  "Right John," said Clayton. "You know you did very well at the language test."

  John nodded. "Yes. You said earlier. Thank you."

  "And you interviewed well."

  "Thank you."

  "I wondered if I should tell you a little more about the job?"

  "Well that would be a good idea I think.

  Clayton laughed. "Of course. I sometimes think we are a little too hush hush for our own good. Would you like a cup of tea now?"

  "I think I would yes."

  "Mary do you mind? Mine's with two sugars. John do you take sugar?"

  "No, thanks." Mary got up to go and make the tea.

  "Well John, the job is about translating - mainly from conversations on tapes. Sometimes some written material."

  "Sounds fine."

  "Long hours sitting with headphones on, I'm afraid and typing up translations."

  "I don't type."

  "Don't worry about that. We'll teach you. We have a typing school," said Clayton. He continued. "The job is very sensitive. You wouldn't be able to discuss what you have heard outside, even to your girlfriend, even when she becomes your wife."

  "I guessed that."

  "The material is related to the defence of the realm." Clayton looked serious. "We have deadly enemies you know. The Cold War is serious and could develop into a Hot War at any time. It's important that we know what they are doing to hurt us and they are very cunning."

  John could see this wasn't a game for Clayton.

  "This is a Ministry of Defence building and we wrote to you on Ministry of Defence paper, but we aren't the Ministry of Defence."

  "Oh?" said John.

  "No, this is the Security Service - better known as MI5. Would you be interested in working for us?"

  John said, "Can you give me some time?"

  Clayton frowned slightly. "Of course. It's best to think these things through. In any case I couldn't offer you a job right away. We have to do some background checks into your people. I'm afraid it is quite intrusive. We will speak to your University Tutor and your old teachers. We will speak to your family and make enquiries in your local neighbourhood about you and your beliefs and politics."

/>   "It does sound intrusive."

  "Yes, John but it is very necessary. We can't have any cuckoos in the nest. Unfortunately we have paid too high a price in the past for just taking men at their word. Just because they were our kind."

  Two nights later, John was out at the Chinese restaurant in Silver Street in Durham. Karen and Billy Frankton were with him, eating Chow Mein and drinking Tsingtao beer.

  "So, you gonna take this job then?" said Frankton, forking noodles into his mouth.

  "Dunno. Don't want to really," said John, inexpertly manipulating the chopsticks Karen insisted he try so he appeared sophisticated.

  "Well you should," said Karen. "You have to think of the future."

  "Working for the fascist regime?" Frankton snorted and gulped more Tsingtao.

  "Billy, you're such a poser," said Karen. "You just spout phrases from billboards and student demo posters." She turned to John and pointed to the door, "The real world's out there. You need money. You need a job." She looked at Frankton, "I haven't noticed anyone else offering him a job."

  John said, "I was thinking of applying for an MA in medieval Russian literature."

  Karen rolled her eyes. "What kind of fantasy world do you live in?" she said, "Take the job John."

  "Don't take the job John, remember your ideals," said Frankton.

  "Ideals my arse," said Karen. "Ideals fuck the world up. Your loyalty should be to the people you love not some stupid ideas."

  "I'll think about it," John said.

  "Think about me," she said. "What does your mother say?"

  "She says I should take it."

  "If the women who know and love you say you should, surely that should count?"

  Ever since his mother had got him into the Heriot School and before, she wanted him to leave the narrow world she'd grown up in. For her it meant no coming home covered in coal like his stepfather and grandfather; no more tin baths; No coughing up coal dust. No ice on the insides of the window. No outside toilet and your kids wearing clogs because they couldn't afford leather shoes. No newspaper as toilet roll. No more poverty. She persuaded him to write back to them.