The Concubine's Secret

by Kate Furnivall

  Chang bowed his head and commended the Russian’s spirit to his ancestors, but when he looked round for Lydia she was standing stiffly beside a tree, arms folded tightly across her chest. She didn’t move, just stared at the black trench he’d dug. What was she seeing? The terrible waste of death? Or the similar hole that had swallowed her mother only months earlier? He breathed slowly, calming the race of his blood as it burned through his veins. Or did she foresee her father’s end, as her fears stared straight into the eyes of death? Out here in the forest, life was fragile. Its thread a fine silver filament in the moonlight.

  He picked up the shovel and started to cover the body of Dmitri Malofeyev with black Russian soil. He did not mention that wolves would claw open the grave before dawn marked it with the light of day.

  They washed each other. Chang loved the touch of her hands on his skin and the sight of her flaming mane spilling over her naked shoulder blades. Together they soaped away the dregs of the day’s dirt, from their minds and from their bodies, and afterwards they made love. They didn’t hurry, exploring and caressing each other, teasing tender places and tasting the curve of a neck, the hollow at the top of a thigh, the arch of a foot, the hardness of a nipple.

  It was as though they were discovering each other all over again, at the end of a day that had changed something between them. He relearnt the exact sound of her moan when he was inside her and the way she whimpered when he slowed to long, rhythmic strokes, her fingers digging at his back as if they would scoop out his heart. When finally he lay with his cheek flat on her stomach, sweat salty on his tongue, he must have fallen asleep because he woke suddenly and sensed that Lydia had moved. She was kneeling beside him on the bed, moonlight painting her hair silver. Lying across her palms was his knife. She had removed it from his boot.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it, Chang An Lo?’

  He felt a rush of blood through his veins, but he lay totally still.

  ‘What was me?’

  ‘In the forest.’

  ‘Of course it was. We were there together. I helped you bury your—’

  ‘No.’ She turned the blade over and over in her hand, the way she was turning over her thoughts, touching a finger to the unicorn carved into the ivory handle. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Her hair hung round her face, shrouding it in secretive shadows.

  ‘Yes, Lydia, I know what you mean.’

  ‘In the forest with the soldiers. Four of them dead.’

  He listened to her breathing. It was fast and shallow.

  ‘I could not bear to let you die,’ he answered.

  ‘So it wasn’t Maksim Voshchinsky watching our backs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did you know where I was?’

  ‘It wasn’t hard, you are part of my heart. How could I not know where it was beating?’

  But she would not be put off. ‘Tell me how.’

  ‘You mentioned to me that you were going out in Voshchinsky’s car. It was not hard to guess where you would be heading.’

  ‘So you knew? Already knew where the complex was that my father works in?’

  ‘I have a companion who is as capable of tracking trucks as any Muscovite vor.’

  ‘Kuan?’

  ‘No. A good friend of my heart named Biao.’ He removed the knife from her grasp and placed it to one side. ‘You must take care, my love. Beware of betrayal. Too many people know what you are doing.’

  ‘Except my father.’ He heard her pause and release a long, low sigh. ‘Jens Friis doesn’t know.’

  With an abrupt movement Chang sat up and brushed Lydia’s hair from her face. Her pupils were huge as she looked at him, her mouth alive. Firmly she pressed him back on the bed and moved on top of his body, her hands flat on his chest.

  ‘My love,’ she murmured, ‘how do I thank you for my life?’

  ‘By keeping it safe.’

  As her hips started to move, he yearned to take her away from Moscow. From her father, from her brother, from the woman with the dead husband. From herself.

  51

  Snow had fallen overnight and transformed the prison into a creature of beauty. Its roofs and windowsills, its courtyard and even its stone seat, all glittered under the early morning floodlights like pearls on a wedding dress. Jens hated it. Such hypocrisy. How could something so ugly inside look so exquisite? He trudged the circle, single file, head down, no talking. Snowflakes settled on his eyelashes and melted down his cheeks like tears. In front of him Olga’s small figure stumbled and for half a second he held her elbow to support her. It felt as fragile as a sparrow’s wing.

  ‘No touching!’ Babitsky yelled.

  Jens muttered under his breath, ‘One day soon, Babitsky, I swear I’ll come and touch you.’

  ‘Jens,’ Olga whispered behind her glove without turning round, ‘don’t. The brute isn’t worth it.’

  ‘He is to me.’

  He hadn’t told her that the big man shot dead in the courtyard the day before was his friend. That in the golden days of the Tsar they had sat up all night playing cards together in the stables of the Winter Palace, that they’d fought each other over a girl, arm wrestled for a horse. That they’d bound each other’s wounds and saved each other’s lives. No, he hadn’t told her any of that. He picked up his feet on the white carpet that was smothering the tramp of boots, as if the prisoners were no longer real. Transparent and soundless. Ghosts of a past that was gone. How could he have imagined that they would ever fit into this real Soviet world again? He must have been mad.

  He lifted his face to the falling snow and squinted up past the yellow prison lights to the black clouds beyond, where the moon and the stars lay buried. Out of reach. He thought about his daughter for ever out of reach and again felt that dull ache in his chest that, until the letters started arriving, he’d learned to strangle at birth with a simple click of the mind. But now it wouldn’t go away. It was stuck there, as though someone had hammered a nail into his heart and left it there to rust.

  So engrossed was he in his thoughts that when the iron gate to the courtyard swung open, growling on its massive hinges and letting in the rumble of early traffic noise, he didn’t look up. There would be no more letters, he was certain of that. Dimly he was aware of the horse jingling its bridle, of the baker grumbling about the cold, of the rattle of metal trays and the enticing aroma of freshly baked bread. But still he couldn’t bear to see beyond their compound.

  ‘Jens.’ It was Olga. A quick whisper. ‘Look.’

  He glanced at her and then through the fence, and saw a girl. She was holding a tray of pirozhki on her head, walking into the building. All he caught was a glimpse of her long straight back, of the way she picked her feet up in the snow as daintily as a cat. A dismal brown hat. A flash of flaming hair at her collar.

  ‘Lydia! Lydia! Lydia!’

  ‘Keep walking, Prisoner Friis,’ a guard growled.

  Only then did Jens realise how twelve years in labour camps had trained his tongue. His screams had been silent, exploding only in his head.

  ‘Move, Friis!’

  He moved, one foot in front of the other, making it look easy. Ahead of him Olga glanced over her shoulder at him, eyes worried. ‘Look,’ she whispered again and nodded quickly.

  He needed no telling this time. Across the whole width of the courtyard, a distance of more than forty metres, the small door into the side of the prison stood open. His attention fixed on it. Suddenly she was there again, swinging the tray in one hand as if she hadn’t a care in the world, slender and supple in the way she moved. He recognised her even after all these years. A delicate heart-shaped face that made him want to cry. It was pale except for a livid bruise near her mouth, and she had her mother’s full, sensual lips. She was good. No hint of a glance in his direction.

  Instead she gave a guard a half smile, patted the horse, cast a look at the stone seat, walked over to the back of the cart and only then let her gaze drift towards the prisoners and t
o Jens. Their eyes met. For a heartbeat she froze. As he looked at her something cracked inside him and he almost hurled himself at the mesh fence and howled her name. He wanted to feel the touch of his daughter’s fingers on his own, to kiss her young cheek, to discover the mind behind the large, luminous eyes.

  Her lips moved, almost a smile.

  ‘Friis,’ Babitsky yelled, ‘how many times do I have to say it? Keep moving!’

  Jens had stopped again. With an effort of will he shuffled forward and watched his daughter turn back to the baker’s cart, swap the empty tray for a full one and traipse once more in through the door. He tried to think straight, but couldn’t even see straight. Tears had filled his eyes and his chest was about to explode. Or implode. It made no difference. He ached with happiness.

  ‘Jens.’

  His ears struggled to work out where the voice had come from.

  ‘Jens, it’s me, Olga.’

  He wrenched his gaze from the doorway. Olga was half looking at him over her shoulder.

  ‘Is it her?’ she mouthed in a whisper. ‘Is it Lydia?’

  His mind jammed. Had he told her about his daughter? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t dare nod. If he did anything wrong this moment might vanish and Lydia might never appear again. He let the snowflakes settle on his eyelids and clamped his tongue between his teeth. His feet moved obediently in the circle, though every second that passed they threatened to race over to the wire.

  He waited for ever. Another lifetime. Heart kicking his ribs in, and fear for Lydia sharp as acid in his mouth. Yet when she did emerge it all vanished and he felt only a rush of happiness, hot and liquid under his skin. As she neared the seat the metal tray tumbled to the ground and with an apologetic smile she crouched in the snow to retrieve it.

  Her hand was faster than any snake.

  Dearest Papa,

  Today I will see you. You cannot imagine how happy that makes me. Happy and overwhelmed. I’ve missed you. Since I was five years old I’ve missed you and the thought of seeing you today, my dear father, made the night hours slow and cumbersome.

  How will I not run to you? I learned from the boy that you will be behind a fence, but what if my feet will not listen to my head? I will want to fling my arms around you, Papa, but that will not be possible, so you must imagine it in your mind, your daughter returning to you.

  There is something else I must say. Alexei and I travelled to the forest around the secret clearing where you work and I have seen the wall. Seen the hangars. I believe I saw you but my brother says I imagined it because I wanted the person to be you. Today there will be no imagining. Soon everything will change. We are coming for you. Be ready. Alexei has friends here in Moscow who are willing to help us, he has given much to gather these allies to our side. I can’t tell you more. I am nervous of putting words to paper.

  I cannot come into the prison again as I have nothing more with which to bribe the baker. Fortunately he has a greedy heart but my pockets are empty now. So this is goodbye for the moment. Au revoir. Till I see you again. I am nervous. What if I am not the daughter you hoped for? I love you, Papa.

  Your Lydia

  Jens’ hand shook. He knew already that he would not be the father she was hoping for. But for one day with her, just one day, he would bargain his miserable soul. Oh Lydia, my own sweet daughter, how much are you risking?

  ‘Alexei, this makes me proud.’

  ‘That pleases me, Maksim.’

  ‘He’s done a fine job. He is a true artist.’

  Alexei lifted his arm and studied the new tattoo. It was of a large spider climbing up his biceps, an indication that its bearer is active in the criminal life. A second mark of Cain.

  ‘Is everything arranged?’ he asked.

  ‘My men are ready. The final meeting is today.’

  ‘Lydia has asked to be included.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pakhan, she and I have travelled a long way for this.’ He raised his eyes from the spider to Maksim’s face. ‘Let her come.’

  ‘My son, you are bewitched by this girl. She is no longer your sister, remember that. A vor has no sister.’ He sipped his brandy, eyes stern.

  Alexei pulled on his clean white shirt and buttoned it thoughtfully. ‘Maksim, I am grateful for all you have done.’ He lifted his own brandy to his lips, though the morning had only just started and his stomach was still empty. ‘When this is over, you can ask of me any favour you choose.’

  ‘When this is over you may be dead.’

  Alexei laughed, a loose easy sound that took Voshchinsky by surprise. ‘In which case I shall hold the door open for you, my friend.’

  Maksim did not smile.

  My Lydia,

  To hear of your Chang An Lo, your white rabbit and your taste for an artist I have never heard of, puts flesh on your bones. You have become real. I also am greedy. I want to know all of your life till now, each day, each success and each stumble, each thought that grows in your young head.

  You ask me to tell you about myself and what I think but, Lydia, there is nothing to tell. I barely exist. I don’t smile and I don’t laugh and I try not to think. Somewhere in the prison camp my laughter died and I no longer mourn for it. What kind of person am I? A non-person. So instead I shall do as you ask and tell you about my work. It is the one thing left in me which is good and fine and worthwhile. But even that facet of me is one I am corrupting. Nevertheless here it is.

  You have probably never heard of the Italian General Nobile. Why should you? He is a brilliantly skilled designer of semi-rigid airships. I was told about him by a young Ukrainian who used to be his assistant but who ended up in the bunk below mine in Trovitsk prison camp. The poor bastard had made a minor error, so that his calculations proved to be inaccurate. ‘Sabotage!’ they screamed and threw the Ukrainian in prison.

  He died in the harsh winter of the timber forest but first he told me things. About Nobile’s plans. He intends a massive expansion of the use of airships for military purposes. Lydia, you wouldn’t believe how exciting this is. It is the future. Nobile has even enthused Stalin himself. So what will happen now? Stalin is going to order a Red Airship Programme to be set up and demand a public subscription of millions of roubles for it. Josef Stalin may be brutal, he may be an egocentric tyrant, but he isn’t stupid. He knows another war is coming and he is determined that Russia will be prepared.

  He needed engineers, so that’s why I was brought back from the dead. There is an airship project at Dolgoprudnaya near Moscow which is public knowledge, but the one I’m working on in the forest is secret. We are constructing a . . . what shall I call it? A monster. A vast silver thin-skinned monster with lethal breath. A killing machine.

  Oh Lydia, is that what God felt when He created man? That He had created a beautiful killing machine?

  For that is what my project is. Airships can fly long distances, well beyond any aeroplane’s range. So - this is the part I can barely let loose in my brain, let alone set down on paper - we have slung two biplanes under the envelope of the airship, both of which will be equipped with not bombs but gas canisters. Equipped with a poisonous gas. Yes, you read it right. Poison gas. Phosgene. When the airship has flown unsuspected deep into enemy territory, the planes will drop from a height and skim low over a city or an army barracks. They will spray their lethal gas and pass on like the Angel of Death.

  Stalin intends to build a fleet of these. With my help. My help. What kind of man am I, Lydia, who can construct such a creature? This week we carry out the first full test - that means with real phosgene instead of soda crystals, and real people instead of rubber dummies. My beautiful killing machine will go to work.

  Pray for my soul, Lydia, if you have any faith and if I have any soul. And for that of my dead friend Liev Popkov.

  Your father who loves you with what is left of his heart, Papa

  Chang An Lo watched Alexei fold the letter neatly along the creases of the thin tissue paper with its tiny penmansh
ip and hand it back to Lydia. Saw him struggle to keep the anger out of his voice.

  ‘You went into the prison? You risked your life for a letter?’ Alexei demanded of his sister.

  ‘No, there was little risk involved.’

  They all knew she was lying.

  ‘Let me remind you,’ Alexei said stiffly, ‘that Popkov was shot for doing the same.’

  ‘No, that’s not right. A guard recognised him and Liev was shot for resisting arrest. No one was going to recognise me.’

  To Chang’s eyes it was obvious that Alexei couldn’t decide which enraged him more, his sister’s disobedience or his own disappointment in his father. And the letter hadn’t even mentioned him. As if bastards don’t count for anything. But Alexei was clearly shocked by the horror of what Jens Friis had described, far more than it seemed to shock Lydia. To Chang the confession in the letter made little difference because he was not doing any of this for Jens Friis, but it angered his heart that Lydia’s father had let her down. He could see it in her eyes, the confusion.

  ‘So,’ Chang said quietly, ‘do we drop the plan?’

  Four pairs of eyes focused on him, all but one was hostile.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No.’

  The first and loudest No was Lydia’s, the last was Alexei’s. In between came Maksim and Igor. The meeting was taking place in the Russian thief’s apartment and Chang liked neither the place nor its owner, but let none of it show on his face. He was here because he had requested it and he took no offence when the fat man with the mottled skin said, ‘Not a bloody Chink as well as the girl.’ Chang had seen the fanqui’s expression harden in the silence, the way molten iron hardens in water, and he took it as a good sign. A scheme as risky as theirs needed a heart of iron at its centre.