Into the Flamingo Club he went at ten p.m., walking in mid-tune on the band’s cover of Chuck Berry’s “Maybellene” that wafted through thick cigarette smoke and the smell of a grill weeks past the recommended time for a good palmetto brush. The noise level was three decibels above cocktail hour. Young professionals and businesspeople crowded the dance floor and bar while duck-tailed waiters balanced drink trays and collected money. When Nikolai approached the bar, two young women giggled and talked behind their hands about a woman they swore was Mary Quant, who they overheard discussing something new called the miniskirt.
Nikolai selected a man for his fitted suit and perfect haircut. His dentistry was Western, and his gold Rolex crept out from under his pressed sleeve from time to time, as Nikolai observed.
He moved in, slid between the man and another with his back turned, and ordered an English ale. When his pint came, he paid and threw down a hefty tip that made the bartender smile. He stood with his back to the bar, awaiting a pause in the conversation on his left.
Meanwhile, the target kept right on talking to the young blond woman. At long last, she excused herself for the restroom, and the man turned back to the bar, gulped down his drink, and ordered another.
“She’s lovely,” said Nikolai.
The man’s head turned toward him. “The woman? I think maybe she charges.” He laughed. Nikolai faked it.
“Is this a good place for the ladies?” Nikolai asked. He had left his wedding ring at home with Yulia’s understanding he was working.
“Probably the best in London. There are other cheaper places to drink, but the women aren’t as nice as the Flamingo Club. It’s a difference in social status.”
Nikolai stuck out his hand. “Nick.”
The man shook his hand. “Daniel. What do you do, Nick?”
“I’m in business.”
Daniel grinned. “Now, what in the hell does that mean? That’s a bit vague. Business in what way?”
Nikolai chuckled for effect. “Imports and exports with the States.”
“Oh, well…that sounds interesting.” His voice said not really. Then he asked, “Have you ever been to America?”
“Not yet, but I’ve always wanted to.” Which was true. The closest truth he’d spoken all night. “What do you do, Daniel?”
“I’m vice president of European Travel out of New York. London is a favorite with our clientele.”
“So, you’re here to make sure your customers enjoy London?”
“Something like that. The lady in the restroom is from San Francisco. She came here on her two-week vacation to have a fling. She’s part-owner in a dining ware company in the San Francisco Bay Area. They make melamine stuff, the kind of plates everyone uses when there’s no company. We’ll be having a midnight dinner at Jaruls Kök.”
“Is that all you do, European Travel?”
Daniel had another drink, and like the last, gulped two swallows. Nikolai judged he was feeling no pain.
Daniel opened his hands. “I also do some work for the Stars and Stripes now and then. Just general snooping. Nothing that would get my name in the paper.”
“Stars and stripes?”
“America. I carry its water from time to time.”
“Sorry, I don’t know what that means.”
Daniel shrugged. “Well, there are people here who pay to know some of the things I find out from my customers.”
Nikolai sensed the man was fishing. Typically, it would take two or three lunches. But he went along. He knew the man might be CIA, but that didn’t stop him. Recruitment by the CIA would be reported to KGB Moscow and approved. Nikolai’s major score was that he would penetrate the CIA for information valuable to the Soviet Union while giving up only disinformation.
“People who pay for things? What things?”
“Like when a new business moves into the area, such as IBM. Certain people want to know how many employees, what they’re making, who they’re selling to—especially if they’re selling to the Soviets. Sorry, I’ve had too much to drink. Forget I said that.”
“Hold on, that’s kind of what I do. You’re paid according to what these people say it’s worth?”
“Yep.”
“Same with me. I wonder—do you think it would make sense for two guys like us to trade information? Maybe make more money off of what the other guy knows?”
“Are you a spy?”
Nikolai’s eyes narrowed, and he made direct eye contact. “The truth? I’m a businessman who likes pleasant things. My wife likes pleasant things. All it takes is money. I’ll sell a little information here and there if it helps fatten our bank account.”
“Soviet information?”
Nikolai raised an eyebrow. “American information?”
The woman returned. She held up her glass and called to the bartender, “Ding, ding, another?”
When Daniel didn’t turn back to her right away, Nikolai knew he had said some right things.
“How much would you pay? Let’s just say I’m asking for future reference,” Daniel said.
“One-hundred American dollars for each meeting that gives me some good information.”
“That’s amazing. Where do you get your money?”
“See, I have my sources. I’d rather not disclose, or you’ll go straight to them. I mean, it’s only a possibility.”
Daniel nodded his head. “No, no, no, I get it. I’m sorry I said that. Look, there’s a new American hydraulic outfit moving into London to address waterway erosion. I’m helping find housing for about fifty workers. Would something like that interest your people?”
Nikolai smiled. He didn’t want to reel him in too quickly. “I think so. I could find out. Shall we meet again?”
Daniel said, “I’m here every night. You talk to your people, I’ll put some information together in a packet, and we’ll meet next Monday night. Is that good for you?”
Nikolai was very wary. It was too easy. It sounded more like the CIA as it went along. “Monday would be perfect. I’ll bring one-hundred-dollars in twenties.”
“Won’t hurt my feelings. All right, Nick”—Daniel held out his hand—“I’m going to need to get back to my lady before she ditches me. But we’ll meet next Monday. Be prepared, like the Boy Scouts say.”
They shook hands, and Nikolai patted Daniel’s shoulder. “She wants another drink. Your chance to shine. What’s your name again?”
“Daniel Danbury.”
“Nikolai Semenov. We’ll talk soon.”
He finished his drink and moved off. It was early, only 10:30.
Time to move on to the next club.
His efforts paid off. By the end of the month, he managed three contacts, two of them with insider information about British defense industries. Moscow was pleased and sent its encouragement.
Nikolai grew into his posting and had fleeting thoughts of staying forever, but what would Yulia feel about that? Like his father, her father was KGB, too. She was KGB through and through. Would she have the same feelings about staying in Britain the rest of her life? Or would she turn him in if she knew his intentions?
One night in bed while they were reading, Nikolai tossed something out to get her reaction. “Lively music, cheerful people, openness. More and more, I look at the Soviet Union now as cold with little sunshine. General Masirov was right. I do enjoy it here.”