Angels in the Snow. Derek Lambert

had married young and taken his bride to a succession of steamy outposts where the character of potential ambassadors is tested and jealousies and gossip thrive as lushly as lilies, and unworn clothes become mildewed within a week. Their experiences had deepened their love which had transcended the marriage experience of the majority and become a distillation of trust and devotion. And when young diplomats and their wives lay in bed blaming Moscow for the friction in their marriages one or the other would point out that the Ambassador and his wife had jointly conquered far worse hardships.

      The Ambassador said: ‘I think you have the makings of a good diplomat. But never be too obvious.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Now at least we know each other’s faces. We’ll have another chat soon. Mason will look after you.’ He turned to the garden where the roses had cringed, at the touch of frost, into ragged balls like ladies’ handkerchiefs crushed in the hand.

      In the lobby the men at the reception desk in their homely suits watched him as they would watch a passing car. He smiled at them and they nodded. ‘That’s all right, then,’ he said. They nodded again.

      The embassy reminded Mortimer of his public school. Certain places such as dollar bars and Russian homes were tacitly understood to be out of bounds; games were not compulsory but if you didn’t ski, skate or play tennis in the summer you were unsociable; any individuality was synonymous with eccentricity which was noted by the security officers; the non-diplomatic staff had much the same standing as the bursar’s clerks; obscenity met with a reproof and junior diplomats were kept in their place.

      Henry Mason, a first secretary in the political section, laid down the rules for Mortimer in his office.

      ‘Always travel with someone,’ he said. ‘Especially on the trains. That’s when they try to compromise you. And never stray outside the forty kilometre area.’

      ‘How do I know when I’m outside it?’ Mortimer asked.

      ‘You’d know soon enough. The militia would nobble you. The answer is not to go more than thirty kilometres unless you’re going to the airport or somewhere special.’

      ‘But I can visit other parts of Russia, can’t I? Leningrad for instance. I thought I’d like to go there.’

      ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t,’ Mason said. ‘With permission of course. We might send you up on some sort of job when you’ve learned the ropes. But you’ll have to go with someone of course. Even then I expect you’ll be followed. I went to Kazan the other week with a chap from the Canadian Embassy. We were followed everywhere we went.’

      ‘I didn’t realise it was quite as bad as that,’ Mortimer said.

      Mason nodded. He had a keen, refined face, silken hair receding at the temples and bristles of virile hair in his ears. He always spoke with great intensity. ‘And steer clear of the Press as much as possible. Leave them to us older chaps. We know how to handle them. They’re only interested in bad news anyway.’

      ‘They warned me about the Press at the FO,’ Mortimer said. ‘Are there many British correspondents here?’

      ‘The Times, Telegraph, Express, Mail and Reuters have staff men. Not bad chaps but they’re inclined to make mountains out of molehills. In any case they have a briefing with the Minister once a fortnight. He tells them all he thinks they should know. Would you like another cup of tea?’

      ‘No thank you,’ Mortimer said. He wondered if there was much that he should not do.

      ‘And of course don’t get involved with any Russians. You’ll find they’re very friendly people but it doesn’t pay to get too close to them.’ He paused. ‘You’re not married, are you?’

      Mortimer thought: Here it comes. ‘No,’ he said.

      ‘I don’t quite know how to put this,’ Mason said. ‘But it is my duty and I’m sure the Ambassador would want me to mention it. Avoid the Russian girls like the plague. You’ll probably have a few approaches made to you. Be polite but firm.’

      Mortimer said: ‘Everyone has been on to me about this. I don’t understand really. Obviously I’m not going to get tangled up with a beautiful spy. But haven’t there been lots of cases recently of Englishmen marrying Russian girls?’

      ‘Not diplomats,’ Mason said. ‘Journalists and businessmen and people like that. Not diplomats.’

      ‘But it isn’t a crime to go out with a Russian girl, surely.’

      Irritation sharpened the intensity of Mason’s voice. ‘It may not be a crime,’ he said. ‘It’s just not done. Now perhaps you could look through these and mark up anything you think might interest us.’ He handed Mortimer a stack of provincial editions of Pravda.

      Later Mortimer asked Giles Ansell, with whom he shared an office, if Mason was inclined to exaggerate the hazards.

      Ansell said: ‘He’s obsessed with them. He’s not really a diplomat like the rest of us. He’s a political animal. Knows what they’re saying in the Kremlin before they’ve said it and all that. Absolutely fluent in Russian. But he’s so bloody good at his job that he gets passed over as far as promotion is concerned. Or at least he thinks he does. The trouble is all the intrigue and whatnot that he studies has got into his blood. He sees a spy at every corner.’

      ‘But is he right about not going out with Russian girls?’

      ‘It’s up to you, old boy. I personally wouldn’t say no to banging a Russian bird. It would be one for the old memoirs.’

      ‘Then why don’t you go out with one?’

      ‘Because my wife wouldn’t approve,’ Ansell said gloomily. ‘You must come round to dinner one evening this week. Anne likes a bit of company.’

      They were interrupted by the sound of excited voices in the lobby, a rare phenomenon in the British Embassy. Ansell went out to find out what was happening.

      When he came back he said: ‘Quite a flap on.’

      ‘What’s happening?’

      ‘A Russian tried to defect to the embassy.’

      The wife of a diplomat on the way to the embassy to take her husband home to lunch had stopped at traffic lights across the bridge. As she was about to drive away a middle-aged Russian who had been lounging against the railings pulled the door open and sat down beside her. ‘British Embassy,’ he said. ‘British Embassy.’ And handed her a piece of paper with a message scrawled on it in broken English. It was a plea to be given asylum; the secret police were after him and he had a message for Winston Churchill. When she slowed down as if to stop the man became hysterical and mimed the action of cutting his throat.

      ‘So what did she do?’ Mortimer asked.

      ‘She got as far as the embassy gates and shouted to the militia outside. They carted him off still clutching his piece of paper.’

      ‘Poor chap,’ Mortimer said. ‘What do you think will happen to him?’

      Ansell put two fingers to his temple. ‘Dosvidaniya,’ he said.

      ‘Couldn’t she have brought him inside? After all we would have granted him political asylum if he’d jumped ship in London.’

      ‘Far too risky,’ Ansell said. ‘There would have been a hell of a rumpus. He was obviously as nutty as a fruit cake and in any case how would we have got him out of the country? Apart from that he might have been a phoney sent in so that the Russians could accuse us of subversive activities. No, she did absolutely the right thing. Didn’t panic and used her common-sense. Quite a girl.’

      The wife was reported later to have said that the Russian’s breath had upset her more than anything. She was concerned about his fate but what else could she have done?

      Hugh Farnworth, the extrovert first secretary in charge of security, passed word around the departments that the incident should be underplayed to the point of