Goodbye to an Old Friend Read Free Page B

am I going to be cooped up in this place?’
    Adrian looked with appreciation around the room. The house was a Queen Anne mansion that had been surrendered to pay off the death duties of a duke with no money, and taken over by the Home Office for occasions such as this, housing in complete, guarded safety people whose presence Britain might find an international embarrassment.
    â€˜It’s a rather nice house,’ he offered.
    â€˜Bourgeoisie,’ dismissed Bennovitch. ‘I’ve answered all the questions. You know everything now. I want to meet your space scientists, your experts … talk to people who interest me. My mind is going numb here, with only you to talk to.’
    Adrian remained smiling, unruffled.
    Only when he was debriefing was Adrian completely sure of himself, utterly confident of his control of the interview, his thoughts and questions always comfortably ahead of his subject. Bennovitch was easy to handle. He’d reached that conclusion at their first meeting five weeks before, and enjoyed proving it at every subsequent interview. Like a bell meant food to Pavlov’s dogs, praise meant co-operation from the small, almost dwarflike Georgian, whose personality had been warped by the constant privileges and reminders in the Soviet Union of his importance to their space development.
    Binns had decided the value of psychology very early in their relationship and insisted that Adrian undergo several courses. Bennovitch, Adrian diagnosed, was a manic depressive. No. He corrected himself, immediately. Not yet. Not quite. But he would be. Perhaps five years, maybe a little longer. All the symptoms were rippling beneath the surface.
    The Russian stood up and began prowling the room, the baggy Russian suit he still refused to discard – the need for association with the known past, identified Adrian – flapping around him, the trousers puddling at his ankles.
    His fingers, already puffed and swollen from the perpetual nail biting, were constantly to his mouth and Adrian saw he had developed the habit of removing his glasses for needless cleaning, his hands clenched in tight, scouring motions, as if the spectacles had lacked attention for weeks. Like Macbeth, wiping the guilt of defection from his hands, mused Adrian.
    Bennovitch slumped in the window-nook, staring out over the barbered lawns towards Petworth, hidden by the woodland that made the house so attractive to the Home Office.
    â€˜Warm, isn’t it?’ suggested Adrian, setting out on a charted course.
    â€˜In Georgia, we have better weather.’
    Adrian smiled again, ignoring the invitation to pointless disagreement.
    â€˜I’d like some more help,’ he said, taking the next step.
    â€˜I’ve helped you enough. I’m tired. No more. Finish.’ Bennovitch made chopping gestures with his hands to emphasize the finality.
    â€˜I thought you worked sixteen hours a day in the final stages of the Soyuz programme.’
    â€˜We did,’ admitted Bennovitch, swallowing the bait.
    â€˜Surely my simple questions can’t tire an intellect as developed as yours.’
    Bennovitch shrugged, agreeing with the argument. He began cleaning his spectacles.
    â€˜Tell me about Pavel,’ said Adrian, sure of his catch.
    Bennovitch turned back into the room. ‘I told you already. We worked together, always. A team, we were … on Soyuz … Salyut … the Mars probe …’
    â€˜Yes, yes, I know,’ interrupted Adrian. ‘That wasn’t what I wanted to know. Were you at his wedding?’
    Bennovitch stared at him, analysing the stupidity of the question. ‘Of course,’ he said, his arrogance mounting. ‘I’ve told you all this. He married Valentina, my sister. I was witness.’
    â€˜When was the wedding?’
    Bennovitch glared. ‘Why?’
    â€˜It’s important, really.’
    â€˜You don’t believe me,’ Bennovitch suddenly