The Trinity Six - Charles Cumming [129]
‘As you can see from the back page, your name is not Samuel Gaddis today. For the purpose of this journey, you are Samuel Tait. You have the same forenames, you have the same birthday. You can see that, for the purposes of realism, we have also given a name and address for persons to contact in the case of emergency.’ Gaddis looked at the inside back page. Somebody had written an address and telephone number for ‘Josephine Warner’ in blue biro. ‘If you need to contact Tanya in London, use the number for “Jo” in the mobile. It will go through a switchboard.’
‘What’s my job?’ Gaddis asked. He knew that it was incumbent upon him to seem alert and professional, to ask the right kind of questions, though in truth his mind was scrambled by doubts.
‘Good thinking.’ Miklós made a left turn on to a single-lane highway and sounded his horn as a man riding a moped cut them up on the inside lane. ‘You have the same job. You teach history at the University College in London. This has not changed. Nothing has changed except your address, your surname and your passport number. We always try to keep things simple.’
Always try. Gaddis looked out of the window at an ordinary day in Budapest. Who else had been through this process? What kind of people and under what circumstances? How different would things have been, say, thirty years earlier, with informants in every apartment block and the secret police on every corner? The car was held at a set of traffic lights and, for the first time, Gaddis experienced a burst of panic, as if he was about to be surrounded by gunmen or pulled over to the side of the road. But the moment passed. He put it down to nerves and sleeplessness and reminded himself to buy cigarettes at the airport. The traffic lights turned green and Miklós pulled away, past a second-hand car dealership and faded billboards advertising Samsung televisions, whisky, brands of Hungarian lingerie.
The airport appeared sooner than he had anticipated, a brand-new building finished in the style favoured by architects looking to save time and money: the Departures terminal resembled an aircraft hangar shaped from moulded plastic. Gaddis had been expecting something akin to the chaos of Sheremetyevo, but the interior reminded him of a branch of Homebase. It was spotless and gleaming, with hard plastic seats the colour of terracotta and white walls which amplified the harsh artificial light in the terminal. Miklós chatted amiably as they strolled towards the Departures board, saying, ‘Very good, excellent,’ when he saw that the Easyjet was on time. After queuing only briefly, Gaddis checked his bag into the hold, received a boarding pass and then sat with Miklós at a branch of Caffé Ritazza, drinking espressos and occasionally scoping the building for any sign that he had been recognized. It was an utterly mundane environment, seemingly entirely without threat. Miklós, continuing to put Gaddis at ease, revived their earlier conversation about Russian literature and encouraged him to talk at length on the subject of Tolstoy’s childhood. By the time they had drunk a second round of coffee and picked their way through a brace of tasteless muffins, it was time to catch the plane.
The two men walked towards the security area. There were no cops at the entrance, no sniffer dogs, no heavy-set Russians lingering in the shadows brandishing black-and-white surveil-lance photographs of Dr Samuel Gaddis. It was just a regular afternoon at a regular budget-flight airport. Gaddis could not imagine that any problem was going to befall him.
‘So,’ Miklós placed a hand on his back, ‘we are old friends, OK? You have been to stay with me for a few days. We have done nothing but get drunk.’
Gaddis suddenly felt alarmed. He realized why Miklós had left it this late to furnish him with the final details of his cover. He had obviously been concerned that he would forget them.
‘We met on a stag weekend in Budapest five years ago.’ Miklós grinned and rubbed his beard,