by John Lawton
“Why me? Why not you?”
“We don’t have vintage Rolls-Royces in the Soviet Union. Joe, Joe … tell me you have not set me up.”
Wilderness holstered his gun.
“Of course I haven’t. Put the fucking gun away. You’re not going to shoot the British ambassador.”
As though cued by his title, Troy got out of the Rolls and crossed the few yards of stone and dust between them.
Wilderness said, “Have you considered being less conspicuous, Troy?”
Troy said, “Why? The Russians know everything. They didn’t even bother to follow me. They knew where I was going.”
“Troy, this had better be good.”
“As good as I can make it.”
Troy turned to Kostya.
“Major Zolotukhin, I presume? I’m Frederick Troy. Her Britannic Majesty’s ambassador to the Socialist Republic of Czechoslovakia. I have spoken with President Svoboda in Prague and with Herr Brandt in Bonn. I have placed calls to Comrade Gromyko in Moscow that he seems most unwilling to take. And to Ambassador Chervonenko with hardly more joy. He dismissed me in eight words. Nevertheless—I am authorised to negotiate on behalf of the Bundesrepublik for the release of Nell Burkhardt. And in the absence of any other Russian willing to talk to me I am here to negotiate with you.”
“Что?”
“You’d like me to say that pompous load of twaddle again?”
“Twaddle? What is twaddle? No … no … it’s just …”
“Brandt wants her back. Name your price.”
Wilderness spoke. “You’re serious?”
“Would I be stuck on this hillside with you two if I weren’t?”
“Then take your hand out of your pocket and off your gun. Nobody here wants to shoot anybody.”
Troy took his left hand from his overcoat pocket, showed them the Baby Browning he’d been clutching, then slipped it back into his shoulder holster, and they stood, each about ten feet from the other, patient gunmen on an impatient errand.
“A handbag gun,” said Wilderness. “I don’t believe it. Both of you with fucking handbag guns.”
Then he said, “Kostya, you can trust this bloke, he’s kosher.”
“Kosher?”
“Кошерный,” Troy translated. “Major, please take our offer to Moscow. Please, take it to your mother. That is all I got from Chervonenko, eight words—’Tell him to take it to his mother.’ You can liaise with me in person at the British Embassy. No one will be surprised at a visit from a KGB officer in the midst of the present crisis. In fact, it might be harder to receive Joe than you. He’s supposed to be a secret secret agent, after all.”
Wilderness shook his head.
“No. I’m utterly blown. As you said, they know everything. I have only hours left playing Bulldog Drummond.”
Troy looked to Kostya.
“He’s right,” Kostya said. “He has little or no cover left. The sooner he leaves Czechoslovakia, the better.”
“Then you need to move quickly, Major. Come back to me with your terms. We want Nell Burkhardt back—unharmed.”
“It will be difficult. It might even be impossible.”
“I’ll be waiting. If you can, phone me—if you don’t want to be overheard, polish the brass buttons on your uniform and pay me a formal visit. I understand … the difficult you do right now, the impossible takes a while.”
Kostya looked at Wilderness, said, “What does he mean? He talks in riddles.”
“He’s being a smart arse. Troy family weakness. Use ten words where two would do. He was quoting a popular song. Cole Porter? Jerome Kern? I dunno. But he really is the British ambassador and he’s just handed you a blank cheque. Find out Moscow’s price, and short of complete NATO nuclear disarmament you’ll probably get it.”
Kostya was staring at nothing again, then he was staring at the ground, then he was staring at Troy, then he was staring at Wilderness.
For a second or so Wilderness could see a frozen lake in Lapland.
“Joe, Joe … I am out of my depth. This could get us all killed.”
“We were out of our depth in Berlin, we were out of our depth in Finland, yet here we are. Alive and kicking. The thing is … the thing has got to be … not to shoot each other.”
“The thing is to free Nell. I want to see Nell walk free as much as you do.”
“Of course you do, Kostya. We have to know who to trust. And we have trusted one another for a very long time. Now, if you two ladies stick your popguns back in your handbags, we might find a bar.”
§189
They let Kostya buy. A mostly empty bar in Mělník.
Troy said, “He seems like a boy.”
“He’s the same age as me. He’s just worn better.”
“Berlin? I heard Berlin.”
“That was round about the time of the airlift. We really were just boys in Berlin. Schiebers, black marketeers, smugglers … we thought nationalities and frontiers didn’t matter. Naïve and cunning at the same time. That combination got me shot. In fact, it was Kostya’s boss who shot me—Yuri Myshkin. All a bit of a cock-up. Yuri claimed he wasn’t aiming at me.”
“You believed him?”
“Yes. I had the chance to get even a couple of years ago. I didn’t take it. Nature took its course instead. You probably read about his funeral … but by then Yuri was a full-blown KGB general and had gone back to using his real name, Bogusnik. He was a rogue. Weren’t we all? Kostya’s mother was a rogue—these days she’s also a KGB general. But Yuri took care of Kostya even if his mother didn’t. Kostya got out of Berlin without a scratch. I didn’t see him again until Finland in ’66.”
“Ah … yes … I heard about your Finland posting.”
“Of course you did … we’re a secret service … which means every bugger knows our secrets.”
“It’s far simpler than that. Your wife has coffee with my brother’s wife … they—”
“Natter?”
“I’m sure they do. So … you and Kostya ran another racket in Finland? Let me guess—vodka?”
“We don’t call them rackets, Troy. We call them ventures.”
“No, Joe. That was a racket. This is a venture.”
“A venture I’d rather London knew nothing about.”
For a few moments Troy said nothing, then, “That’s a lot to ask. I am, after all, London’s ‘man-in-Prague.’ ”
“I know. But, if London knows … well they’ll just fuck it up, won’t they?”
“Of course they will. So … yes … OK … they’ll hear nothing about it … until it’s too late.”
“Now if you could get that through to Janis Bell—”
Kostya was coming back. His hands still shaking, drops of Uzbekistan’s Finest “Scotch” were splashed all over the tin tray.
He downed half his glass in one gulp.
Wilderness and Troy both stared at him, neither touching a glass.
Kostya said, “What is the matter?”
Troy said nothing.
Wilderness said, “There’s nothing to be scared of.”
“Are you crazy? You’ve met my mother. There’s everything to be scared of.”
“She’ll do it.”
“I wish I shared your confidence.”
“She’s a businesswoman—”
“She’s a general.”
“She’s a Schieber.”
“Meaning?”
“There’s a deal to be done. We simply have to make it attractive enough for her to give us what we want. Nell is being held by the KGB in Berlin. Your mother can get access to the compound—she barks, they jump—your mother can strike a bargain with us.”
“Are you offering money?”
“Kostya, I don’t have any—”
Troy cut him off, “I do. If General Zolotukhina is looking for a bribe, then I shall bribe her. I doubt she would want so much as to break the bank.”
“You are a rich man?”
“Yes.”
“A capitalist millionaire?”
“And the rest.”
“He’s telling the truth, Kostya,” Wilderness said. “The man is seriously rich. Take the money for granted. Just strike the deal.”
The other half of Kostya’s imitation Scotch went down without touching the sides. Troy quietly slid his glass towards him.
“Спасибо.”
§190
After Kostya had gone, Wilderness said, “He might still fuck it up.”
“It felt like giving Pinocchio a blood transfusion, but I think your pep talk helped.”
“But? I can hear another ‘but’ waiting in the wings.”
“If push comes to shove … could you shoot our little wooden boy?”
“I’ve no idea. I just wish they’d sent someone else.”
Out in the car park Wilderness looked at the boot on the Rolls-Royce. Ran his finger over the bullet holes.
“I can hardly believe this. You had it shipped from Berlin?”
“It hasn’t been used since the wall went up.”
“And in twenty years they haven’t got around to fixing the bullet holes. There are times my life seems like a circle.”
“Meaning?”
“Berlin ’48. The one that didn’t hit your Roller hit me. Wanna see the scar?”
§191
Palác Thun
It was late the following afternoon.
The switchboard operator called Troy.
“Ambassador, I have a Russian on the line. Bad line and very bad English. Won’t give a name.”
“Put him on.”
“I think it’s a woman.”
Already?
“You are the Lord Frederick Troy Umbatsator?”
Guttural. A voice deeper than his own spoke to him of a lifetime of cheap cigarettes.
“Yes.”
“I am Volga Vasilievna Zolotukhina.”
“How nice of you to call, General. How may you help me?”
“Ha … ha … ha. So funny. How say? You English … you kill me.”
“General, I’m happy to speak Russian if it speeds things up.”
So they switched to Russian.
“I got your message. I’m in Berlin. That’s the ‘how’ of this.”
“And Fräulein Burkhardt is well?”
“She is unharmed.”
“And the boy?”
“This is not about the boy. The boy is not part of any deal.”
“So, are you calling me with a price?”
“Да, конечно.”
“How much do you want?”
“Wrong question.”
“What do you want?”
“Wrong again.”
“General, I’m running out of interrogatives.”
“Try … не сколько а кого?”
Кого … Who might I want?
§192
Troy yelled for Janis Bell.
He’d never done that before.
She ran in.
She’d never done that before.
“Where’s Joe Holderness? Is he still in Prague?”
“He’s downstairs right now.”
“Get him up here.”
§193
“Zolotukhina doesn’t want money.”
“What does she want?”
“Bernard Alleyn.”
§194
Wilderness opted for the shortest route to Berlin—out via the Zinnwald-Georgenfeld Crossing, into the DDR, on through Dresden to East Berlin, then into West Berlin at Invalidenstraße. He’d have to stay as Walter Hensel. He felt that as keenly as if someone had stubbed out a fag end on him.
He’d left it late. Waiting on news, any news from Russia. He’d left as soon as Troy had given him the news, but by then it was dusk and as he approached the border it was darkness. He was tired. The last thing he had imagined had happened. The last thing he had wanted was happening.
About five miles south of Teplice he felt a wave of exhaustion roll over him and, as he snapped to, realised he had let the car drift into the opposite lane.
Oh for a cup of coffee. He thought he might kill for a couple of dexies.
By the magic of thought, less than a mile on, nestling on the edge of the forest that surrounded Velemín, a shack appeared. A shack with an illuminated sign boasting beer, sausages and … coffee.
He pulled over into a car park, empty but for one beaten-up, steely-grey Trabant.
A man was painting a slogan on the wooden fence at the back of the car park.
“Отвяжись, Иван!”
(Fuck off, Ivan!)
The man turned. It was a boy, no more than eighteen or nineteen, and once he had perceived no threat in Wilderness he carried on spraying, no doubt heading for one of the predictable taunts that had been flung at the Red Army since August …
Иди домой … Наташу нужно ебать
(Go home now … Natasha needs a shag)
Кто ебет твою жену, пока ты ебешь нас?
(Who’s fucking your wife while you’re fucking us?)
Wilderness went for coffee. Stirred in two sugars. Hated the taste but needed the energy.
He sat long enough to feel the caffeine bite, and when he emerged from the shack he saw four Russian soldiers and a half-track with a rear-mounted machine gun.
The soldiers had the boy on the ground and were kicking the shit out of him. The boy was groaning, but when he stopped, they stopped and for a few seconds the only sound was the idle purr of the half-track’s engine. Then they started laughing, laughing like drunks at a post-rugby piss-up.
They looked at Wilderness as he approached, and the laughter began to subside. No one interfered as Wilderness knelt down and put his left hand to the boy’s carotid artery.
He was dead.
“Он умер,” Wilderness said, turning to look at them, his left hand still resting on the boy’s neck, his right gripping the butt of the Smith & Wesson tucked into his shoulder holster.
This started them laughing again.
Wilderness stood up. Fanned the hammer with the edge of his left hand. Took out the first three with shots to the forehead, but hit the fourth in the throat. The man lay on his back in a spreading crimson tide, both hands under his chin.
Wilderness looked down. The man stared back.
Wilderness shot him through the forehead.
Then he heard the grinding of gears and saw the half-track begin to reverse.
He’d not noticed that the driver was still behind the wheel. So dark, he could see no one in the cab. He had only one shot left, but one was all it took to kill him—fired at a face he never saw. The half-track continued on its unmanned trajectory and demolished half the fence before it came to a halt.
Wilderness looked back at the shack. No door had opened, no face pressed to the window. They could hardly fail to hear, but not to see was wisdom.
He got back into the BMW and changed course.
If this was reported the first thing the opposition would do was look for him at the crossing a few miles down the road, so he headed southwest for the Waidhaus Crossing, which would lead him straight into West Germany.
The road was empty, and he had a car that could touch two hundred kph.
Troy’s question had troubled him, but he knew the answer to the question now. He could shoot their little wooden boy. If he had to.
§195
He checked into a hotel on the outskirts of Nuremburg. And slept.
Vienna
§
Vienna, The Imperial Hotel: September 1955
Brain set like mortar.
No one had told him this.
It was possible that he had just surpassed his instructor—the inimitable Major Weatherill—in that the major might well have shot nothing more animate than a cardboard target. He was, after all, paid to teach men like Wilderness how to kill, not to kill in person.
He had sat too long.
He’d have to take a lavatory brush to the wall.
§
Wilderness dumped the body in the bath. The Russian was a little bloke, no more than five feet five, and less than ten stones.
He ran the cold tap until the man was completely submerged.
He reached in and closed the remaining eye, but the movement of water caused by removing his hand sent out a ripple that opened the eye again. It wasn’t looking at Wilderness, though. It wasn’t looking at anything. It was no more than the glassy eye of a goldfish in a bowl.
Wilderness looked at the wall.
Picked up the bog brush.
Brain set like mortar.
He knew what he was going to do. He was going to leave the man in the bath and leg it. Leave it to whoever found him to sort it out.
So—said one part of his mind to another—why scrub the brains off the wall?
All the same, he did.
Tipped the grey, crispy mess into the loo and flushed until it went.
§
Wilderness went through the pockets of the Russian’s jacket. Took his wallet and his passport.
He put on the shoulder holster and the Browning for no other reason than that it seemed the simplest way to carry them. Then he went through his own small suitcase and stuffed his jacket pockets with anything that identified him—as well as his toothbrush, razor and a spare shirt.
He looked at himself in the bedroom mirror. The jacket bulged. Nothing to be done about that. He hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob and went down to the lobby. With any luck the sign would buy him about forty-eight hours.
As he walked past the concierge, he felt like Harpo Marx in Room Service. Dodging out without paying the bill, and wearing everything he owned.
IX
Black Coffee
§196
Nuremberg
He’d had the dream again. But it was the last time. He sat on the edge of the bed and shook his head, and in that shaking freed himself. The dead Russian never visited him again.