The Secret Families

by John Gardner

  He asked if there were any questions.

  ‘What do I use?’ from Naldo.

  The general looked across the table at Kati and nodded. She rose and walked over to a built-in pinewood sideboard. Opening a drawer she brought out a long box, made of wood with some kind of black covering. She placed the box in front of Naldo who opened it. Inside, nestling in velvet was a short Walther P5, a long stubby noise-reduction system, and one magazine, filled with eight 9 mm rounds.

  ‘A gift from us all.’ The general smiled. ‘Kill them both, Naldo. Use all eight rounds if you have to, but blow their heads off. I mean that, literally. It would be best to make certain no local police or doctors have a chance to identify them. Him in particular.’

  Naldo did not even acknowledge what was an obvious order. Reluctantly, he realized that the general was making things operationally sound. In the general’s shoes, he would have given the same instructions. Without even looking down, he took out the pistol and stripped it, just to encourage them, he thought. Luckily the P5 was one of eight automatic hand-guns that Naldo could strip and reassemble blindfold. As he reassembled it now, his fingers checked that the whole thing was in working order, running the ball of his thumb over the firing pin, to check its length, finally cocking the mechanism and doing the unthinkable — the one thing no weapons instructor would countenance — pointing the weapon at the floor and pulling the trigger to hear the pin thud home. He would have plenty of time to check and recheck the pistol, but he wished to indicate his own professional attitude.

  ‘It’ll do the job,’ he said at last. ‘Now, sir, can you get us out?’

  Spatukin showed no surprise. He talked for ten minutes on the route he planned to take, on the tactics that he would employ — as high as possible until they were over the sea, then down to wave level to avoid radar search. He went into questions of speed and wind; how he was going to get local details from the nearest air traffic control centre, at Novorossiisk, before they left for Penkovsky’s dacha. The helicopter had already been refuelled, and the pilot told to go into town and enjoy himself for four days, then call in for further instructions. ‘I have made sure that he will be well looked after.’ A vulpine smile from Spatukin. ‘He will imagine that his own particular charm has drawn the lady to him.’

  Arnie laughed, but both Kati and Naldo did not even smile.

  When Naldo seemed satisfied, the general went over the plan again, then again, then with questions.

  They drank some more wine, then a little brandy. At around midnight, Spatukin announced he was going to bed. ‘I have left instructions that we are not to be woken until late. I think we all require rest.’

  Alone in their bedroom, with only the P5 for company, Kati dragged Naldo onto the great circular bed. He had absolutely no desire to make love to her, but, as she persisted, touching, kissing, undressing and manipulating him in the way she had learned, Naldo became aroused. For a time she rode astride him and came quickly to her own series of fast little multiple orgasms. Then she disentangled herself and took him in her mouth, using tongue and teeth to bring him to his own ejaculation which he thought was going on for ever.

  An hour later it happened again and this time he took her from behind, his hands cupped hard around her breasts as he thrust both of them to their separate apogees.

  Later, as he lay in the dark, Naldo wished it had been Barbara. But that was impossible, so, if anything went wrong tomorrow — no, it was today now — at least he had the satisfaction of knowing that his last sensual encounter had been good. In the morning he felt relaxed, at peace, and ready to avenge his uncle.

  He spent the morning making sure the weapon was in first-class condition. He checked the eight rounds of ammunition, weighing them in his hand and, finally, going down to ask the general’s permission to fire one round in the garden.

  Spatukin was uncertain, hesitant, asking if seven rounds would be enough for tonight. ‘I’ll have both of them with four,’ Naldo told him, and, having gained permission, he went out, chose one round at random and blasted a tin can from a low wall at twenty paces.

  Everyone seemed impressed, and from that moment on, Naldo carried the loaded weapon everywhere; safety on, and the magazine in place.

  They ate a light lunch and an early dinner, none of them very hungry. At 8.45 Naldo went to the bedroom and changed into the clothes he had been advised to bring with him. Black trousers, a black cotton roll-neck and the black training shoes he had worn on the previous evening. He gave the pistol one last check, then screwed the noise-reduction barrel into place and went down to join the others, carrying the weapon close to his side.

  2

  Spatukin drove with almost exaggerated care. There was no moon, and only one other car passed them along the road, heading in the opposite direction. The night smelled of pine and that dry scent that comes after a hot day. As they had gone out to the jeep, Naldo was conscious of the night noises starting to close in.

  For a moment or two on the previous night he had stood on the deck outside the dining room and heard the low sound of owls, and watched the flicker of black against the darkness, as bats displayed their radar, and performed fast, complicated manoeuvres in Spatukin’s garden. He felt the bats and other predators of the night were very close now.

  The blaze of lights from the target dacha went out just as they turned onto the track. Spatukin killed their lights, dropping into first gear. The jeep seemed to make a great deal of noise.

  From ahead there was a shout, then another. The two guards calling to each other, Naldo hoped. Then they came around the final bend and the dacha was in full view, ablaze with interior lights which reflected onto the surrounding deck-like porch, but no further.

  Naldo’s eyes, well adjusted to the darkness by now, could see the tall wire mesh, and the door in it, half open.

  ‘Go!’ Spatukin whispered, and he did not hesitate. Do it now, he thought. Do not even give it a chance to react against your conscience. Kill. Kill for dear loved and dead Caspar. In a crouch he ran from the jeep, through the gate and across the lawn, springy under his feet.

  There was movement from within the dacha, a figure in the dining room, standing and stooping. As he drew near, Naldo saw that the man was pouring wine into a crystal goblet set in front of a dark-haired girl. The big French windows were wide open, and it took only four strides and a jump to reach the deck, then another two steps. The pistol was close to his thigh, the safety off. Almost silently, Naldo Railton appeared in the centre of the open windows.

  The man looked up, his face showing interest, not fear. For a second, Naldo supposed that he thought it was one of the guards, then Oleg Penkovsky realized what was happening and opened his mouth to shout.

  He did not look much older than when Naldo had last seen him in Paris. He certainly looked more fit. It was undeniably Penkovsky and, in the fraction of a second that gave him target identification, Naldo thought recognition crossed the Russian’s eyes.

  ‘This is for Sir Caspar Railton,’ he said softly, extending his arms and squeezing the trigger twice.

  Oleg Vladimirovich Penkovsky’s face disintegrated in a bloom of blood and tissue. No cry, no sound, just the two thumps from the pistol and then a body standing for a second with no face before it curved backwards, hands clutching in reflex. The ‘great agent of conscience’ was dead.

  Naldo did not see him fall. Neither did he see what the girl looked like, or even if fear showed in her eyes. He turned his arms, not moving his body and squeezed off the next two shots. He knew the job was done, for he saw the mist that had been her brain hang for a second, like a halo above her chair. He was out of the room and heading across the lawn again before what was left of her hit the floor.

  Across the lawn. The gate. Open. Step through. Then the lights came on. Night was suddenly day, and there was noise. They sounded like a pair of sub-machine-guns. Three quick bursts.

  Spatukin was already out of the vehicle, standing, as though waiting for
Naldo. He gave a little cry, his arms going up and a well of blood springing from his chest.

  Arnie was out by the time the general fell, but Naldo only had eyes for the obscenity of Kati’s body falling from the rear of the jeep. He had his pistol up and was in a crouch trying to identify the firing points, but Kati’s body slowed him down. She tipped face downwards, and fell to the ground, her skirt catching on the vehicle. She must have tried to stand and jump, he thought, for she lay in a spreading pool of dark liquid, face down, her skirt rucked up showing her buttocks; and by the time Naldo’s brain had registered that, Arnie was also dead, his body terrifyingly still, slumped against the vehicle’s bonnet and blood making a river, splitting into a delta on the metal.

  It took less than three seconds, and Naldo felt his whole body stiffen, waiting to receive his share of the bullets. Then there was a blow to his wrist, knocking the P5 onto the earth at his feet. Almost automatically, he looked down and felt the next strike, to the back of his head. He thought he was throwing up as he hit the ground and entered a world of darkness.

  He did not know how long he had been out. He did know that he could not move. There was pain in his head and a terrible thrumming noise. The world seemed to be tilting and vibrating under him.

  Again, Naldo tried to lift his body, and this time he knew he was strapped down, with his ankles and wrists chained in some way. He tried to speak, and a face appeared above him. A woman. Then he felt his sleeve being rolled up, and smelled the antiseptic before the sharp prick in the arm.

  As the world went away again, Naldo realized what the thrumming noise and the vibration were. He was on an aircraft.

  3

  He had no sensation of time. It was as though he had been floating for days on a raft, in terrible heat. His mouth was dry, and he now felt a very bad pain in the back of his head. He tried to lift his head from the pillow, and this time he could move, only he knew the pain was real. As real as the rough cot they had lain him on, and the bright light far away, covered by a grille in the ceiling.

  After three tries, he got his feet onto the floor. The cell was not a dank dungeon, but almost clinical, with white, glaring tiles, though the door was strong and made of metal. Almost on cue, as though they could read his mind, the door opened. The officer who came in wore the shoulderboards of a captain and he was flanked by two private soldiers, each with an automatic rifle.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ The officer spoke in an almost kind manner, as though he really cared how Naldo felt.

  In his present state, Naldo obeyed his reflexes. ‘I’ve felt better. Bad head. Throat …’ He stopped, not because of any realization of his predicament, but because his throat was dry. Bone dry.

  ‘We’ll get you something to drink, and then some food, perhaps.’ The captain smiled pleasantly and went from the cell, leaving the two guards staring at him. They were young, only boys, Naldo thought. They seemed overawed.

  The captain returned with an orderly who carried a tray, and a little brisk man in the white coat of a doctor. Before they passed over the tray, the doctor examined Naldo’s eyes, and looked into his ears. Then he probed the back of his head, asking, in English, ‘Tell me where it hurts. Here? Or here? Which hurts most.’

  ‘About the same.’ That was all Naldo could get out. The doctor nodded and motioned to the orderly who placed the tray on the cot. There was some black bread, a bowl of thick borshch and a pitcher of water, together with a glass. Everyone stayed in the cell while he drank, asked for more water — which they brought — and then ate the bread, and drank the borshch with the provided spoon. As he ate, so it came back to Naldo. There was no particular feeling about the death of Penkovsky or the girl. The pictures uppermost in his mind were of Spatukin, Arnie and Kati. He could not get the sight of Arnie’s blood sliding down the bonnet of the jeep, or Kati’s briefly clad buttocks revealed in death, from his mind.

  ‘You feel better now?’ the captain asked.

  ‘A little more human.’

  ‘Good. Before we fly you to Moscow, which will happen in the morning, I am bound to make a charge against you. You are Donald Arthur Railton?’

  ‘You must know that, yes.’

  ‘You are a member of the British Secret Intelligence Service?’

  ‘No. You know I have not been so for several years. I am KGB.’

  The captain gave a sigh. ‘We had hoped you would not have been foolish.’ He still spoke evenly. ‘You are a member of the British Secret Intelligence Service, sometimes known as MI6?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very well. I will record that you deny this. Do you also deny acts of espionage against the USSR? In particular acts of espionage within the KGB, where you attempted to place yourself as a defector?’

  ‘I deny them. I deny any act of espionage.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ The captain frowned. ‘We had hoped to save you the difficulties you will encounter in Moscow.’

  ‘What are the particular charges?’ Naldo asked.

  ‘Acts of espionage against the state. Posing as a member of the state organs.’

  ‘Not murder?’ Naldo asked.

  ‘Why should we charge you with murder? You are a spy. You have spied not murdered.’

  Naldo saw Penkovsky vividly in his mind, the face disintegrating; and the girl with the crimson halo. He had not dreamed that, any more than he had dreamed Spatukin, Arnie and Kati shot before his eyes.

  ‘So, no murder charges? Just espionage?’ He felt sick again.

  ‘It’s enough.’ The captain sounded genuinely concerned. ‘This is very serious, Mr Railton. You should really consider your position. Plead guilty and maybe they’ll make it easier on you. Tell everything and you might even be exchanged.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to tell.’ They would use drugs, disorientation, every trick in the book, Naldo thought. What the hell. Penkovsky was dead. Caspar avenged.

  4

  The special effects man from Mosfilm was packing his bags as General Spatukin came down the stairs. ‘Realistic, yes, but also very messy,’ the general said.

  ‘I’m sorry, Comrade General. I did warn you that the blood would stain and soak everything.’

  ‘My God, I thought I really had been shot.’ Arnie Farthing, wearing slacks and nothing else, came in from the porch. ‘That spring harness has bruised my chest.’ He went to the foot of the stairs and called up, ‘Katusha! Get out of that shower and come down so we can drink.’

  Kati appeared at the top of the stairs, she wore a towelling robe and was winding her long hair into a turban. ‘Ugh!’ she said. ‘Can you get us jobs in films, Comrade Technician?’

  ‘I thought you were a great actress,’ the Mosfilm man smiled.

  ‘You would!’ The general’s bark was obviously worse than his bite. ‘You would think she was good, lying there showing her knickers to everyone.’

  ‘Papa.’ She came down and kissed him. ‘Wasn’t it all worthwhile? We got rid of that little shit Penkovsky with no fuss. After all the problems he’s caused.’

  ‘Yes. We don’t have to lie about him any more. Yes, even getting fake blood all over a good uniform is worthwhile. Come, let’s have a drink.’

  TWENTY

  1

  ‘You realize that even your own people have denied you. Don’t be foolish, Donald Railton. Just tell us the whole story. We are fair here in the Soviet Union.’ He was tall, slim, very good-looking in a French manner, and spoke English without a trace of accent. He did not even look Russian, just as Spatukin had not looked Russian. Neither of them had the Slavic facial bone structure. At one time or another, Naldo thought, as a kind of aside, both Spatukin and this man must have been field agents. Scratch a KGB man who did not look Slavic and you would find a field officer.

  Of course they would deny him. They would anyway, but ten times as vehemently when they considered he had made the jump over the wall of his own volition. Naldo wondered how they, and the Langley cousins, had taken Arnie’s death. He had suffered night
mares over Arnie, Spatukin, and Kati during the long haul back to Moscow.

  They had been very gentle with him: making sure there was always reasonable food; giving him a lot of rest; making certain he was medically fit. Well, of course they would. They had to make him look fit and well-fed at the show trial. He still couldn’t understand about Penkovsky. He had said as much and they had laughed. ‘The traitor Penkovsky is long dead, Railton. Shot within hours of his trial. It’s old history.’ After the last time it had been spoken of, they had sent in a psychiatrist who, among other things, asked, ‘Why do you imagine you shot the traitor Penkovsky?’ They sounded genuine enough, and he had not worked out the simple answer to that one as yet.

  At least he knew where he was now. Moscow. The Lubyanka. At first he thought it was Lefortovo, the KGB prison. But this was certainly the Lubyanka. You could smell it. Death from other regimes, and the unexpected bullets after the confession. Naldo had always been susceptible to places, houses, buildings. This one was full of ghosts. Most of them were screaming. But the same would apply to Lefortovo, he suspected, though there had been recent rumours that Lefortovo was undergoing refurbishing of some kind.

  Well, he thought, what can they do? Kill him? Possibly, and who knew about death, except that you lived with it every day of life? Keep him locked and chained up with little food, and no comforts? His father, James, had suffered just that, from the Germans, for quite a time during the First World War to end all wars. He knew the stories, and believed them. In one prison they tried to break his father by leaving him hungry for days and then feeding him poison that attacked his bowels and stomach, so that he fouled his cell and became so weak he could hardly move. Then they made him clean the cell and left him for some days before feeding him emetics and purgatives so that he had to go through the whole process again. If his father could live through that, then certainly Naldo could.