Delicate Indecencies

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  ‘Yes, Master Francis.’ Viola bowed his head and moved towards the foot of the stairs.

  ‘You bastard!’ Gerard screamed and leapt up the stairs, lunging forward in an attempt to knock the shotgun from Grice’s hand. But even as he moved Grice pulled the trigger. There was a bright flash and an enormous explosion of sound reverberated in the confined space. Gerard was thrown back off the steps and through the air. He slammed into the bars beside Jane before collapsing onto the floor.

  Jane’s instinct was to go to Melanie, but shock and the pain in her ears from the blast immobilised her and she cowered in the doorway, peering through the smoke-filled basement at the scene of carnage in front of her. Then she moved, her instincts taking her back to protect her daughter. She glanced through the smoke at Gerard’s body, still moving, twitching and shuddering, but despite the movement she knew he was dead; his face and upper chest were horribly pulped. Norman knelt beside him but turned to her and shook his head.

  Jane threw herself down on Melanie in an attempt to protect her from the next shot. Nobody else moved. Even Grice looked shocked at the damage the shotgun had caused. Then, as the smoke began to clear, Viola completed his journey to the top step like an automaton obeying orders. He reached it and sat, an obedient slave at the feet of his master.

  ‘You . . .’ Grice gestured at Norman with the shotgun, ‘into the cell.’

  ‘You bastard,’ Norman muttered through gritted teeth but he knew he had no option but to obey. He joined Jane in the cell and stared at the now still body beyond the bars. Jane could see he had turned a deathly pale, the blood gone from his face.

  Grice lowered the shotgun and prodded Viola’s shoulder. ‘I think that you should lock the gate, Viola. I would hate to have your punishment interrupted. Quickly now.’

  ‘Yes, Master Francis.’ Viola rose and walked down the stairs without hesitation. As he reached the cell door he lowered his head, avoiding Norman’s gaze. Then he shut the gate, locked it and slipped the key into his pocket.

  Behind him, Grice came down the stairs and moved to the wooden box seat. ‘You know what’s in here, don’t you, Viola?’

  ‘Yes,’ Viola stammered.

  ‘No, that’s not good enough. You know I like you to speak clearly and address me properly.’ Grice sighed impatiently. ‘Now, let’s try it again.’

  ‘Yes, Master Francis,’ Viola said in a stronger voice.

  ‘I think you should take off your shirt and hold onto the bars.’ Grice grinned. ‘That way our guests can see how much you enjoy being punished.’

  He leaned the shotgun against the wall and as Viola, his fingers trembling, unbuttoned his shirt, Grice raised the lid of the seat and took out a long plaited whip. ‘Well, it’s been a while since we used you,’ he said as he lovingly caressed the handle of the whip.

  Jane turned her head away and pulled Melanie to her. ‘Don’t watch, darling,’ she whispered. But as the first blow fell on Viola’s back she couldn’t stop herself glancing over her shoulder. He seemed oblivious to the pain, his eyes open, a half smile on his lips. Jane looked over at Norman, who was standing far back in the shadows; he too was transfixed by the scene being played out in front of them, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Grice brought the flogging to a halt, but it became immediately clear that he wasn’t finished with Viola. He stretched out in the chair and loosened the belt to his trousers. ‘Now, Viola, show your friends just how much you appreciate your master.’

  Viola unclenched his fingers from the bars, slowly, painfully, as though they had fused to the metal. If he was disgusted by what the man was proposing, it didn’t show on his face. ‘Yes, Master,’ he said softly.

  For a second he looked at Grice, who was leaning back with his eyes closed, resting from his exertions, then without another word he moved soundlessly to the wall and picked up the shotgun. Jane watched in horror as he brought it up to his shoulder, his awkwardness betraying his lack of expertise with firearms. Viola closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp click — then nothing.

  ‘Oh really, Viola, how many times have I told you not to play with things you don’t understand?’ Grice’s tone was scornful as though he knew absolutely that Viola was incapable of hurting him. ‘Now, put it down.’

  But Viola stood frozen, bewildered by his inability to fire the shotgun. He looked around at Norman and Jane, his eyes pleading for help. Grice’s expression changed and with a look of anger he started to rise from the chair. At that moment Viola discovered the second trigger. Turning his head away, he pulled it. The blast seemed even louder than the one that had killed Edwards, and was just as deadly. Grice was thrown back, taking the chair with him. The gun clattered to the ground.

  Viola put his shirt back on, walked calmly to the door of the cell and produced the key from his pocket. But then the shock of what he had done hit him. His fingers began to tremble wildly and he dropped the key on the floor and had to kneel down and scrabble about in the dust to retrieve it. Finally he managed to push it into the lock and open the cell. He walked in and up to Norman who, without a word, opened his arms and pulled Viola to him. They stood there for a long time, Viola shuddering and gasping for air as though he hadn’t breathed throughout the whole ordeal.

  In Jane’s arms Melanie whimpered softly. Gently Jane lifted her daughter’s head from her breast and pried free the fingers that were digging deeply into her arm. ‘Come on, it’s time we went home.’ She assisted Melanie to her feet and arranged the blanket around her.

  ‘I’ll bring the car up to the door,’ Norman said and moved towards the stairs, but Viola held him back.

  ‘What about Gerard?’

  ‘Later,’ Norman said firmly. ‘There’s nothing we can do for him now. Help the others out and lock the pantry door.’ He picked up the shotgun and taking a handkerchief from his pocket carefully wiped it free of fingerprints before tossing it down beside Grice’s body.

  By the time Jane, Melanie and Viola came out of the house, Norman was parked beside Grice’s Volvo. Nobody said a word as they got in the car and drove out the driveway. Jane knew there would come a time when they would have to speak about it, but at the moment all she wanted to do was to get Melanie fed, washed and tucked up in bed — a recipe that she realised she also craved for herself. However, that would have to wait until she had attended to her daughter. Deciding that Mel needed to be back in familiar surroundings, she rang Oliver on the car phone. They quickly agreed that he would look after Mel while she and the others went to collect her father.

  Ten minutes later Jane dropped Melanie at Oliver’s house, assuring her that she would be back shortly. Driving back to the apartment with Norman and Viola, the only comforting thought she could summon up was that the worst was over. The moment she walked into the apartment, she knew she was wrong.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It had been two hours and still the phone hadn’t rung. The two women in black had long gone and still Teschmaker waited. He had eaten an indifferent lunch, drunk two cups of coffee and even perused the kiosk’s gift shop with its bizarre array of merchandise ranging from bereavement cards to small statues of the Virgin Mary or Jesus. He decided to give it another ten minutes and then pack it in and go back to Jane. Maybe Laverov had been unable to dig up the information he’d requested, or maybe he had never intended to. If the Russian had gone ahead it would probably have necessitated calling Moscow, and God only knew the bureaucratic channels he would have had to go through. And there was the problem of the time difference . . .

  Teschmaker decided to call it quits. He paid his bill and left the kiosk. Just as he gave the phone a final glance, it rang. He picked it up and was relieved to hear Laverov’s voice.

  ‘So how did you go?’ he asked.

  ‘First I want to know how you came across the name Grigori Vasilyevich Puzanov.’

  ‘Not part of the deal, I’m afraid.’ Teschmaker knew by the question that Laverov had
the answer he wanted. ‘I asked you to find out about Puzanov; I didn’t promise anything.’

  ‘Have you any idea what you’re involved with?’ Laverov’s exasperation came through loud and clear.

  ‘I tried to talk to you about it in the bar and you denied any knowledge.’

  ‘And if I said that I have changed my mind?’

  ‘What? You no longer deny it or you will talk about it?’

  Teschmaker heard a dry laugh at the other end of the phone. ‘The same bar in half an hour. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Teschmaker said and hung up the phone.

  It only took him thirty minutes to get to the back bar of the Dredger’s Arms, but by the time he did Laverov was already there, seated in the same alcove as the previous night. He was vigorously polishing his wire-rimmed glasses.

  Teschmaker had no idea what training KGB officers went through before being unleashed on the world, but obviously Laverov had been absent during the class on blending in with the locals when overseas. The man couldn’t have appeared more Russian if he tried. The suit looked as though it had been mass-produced in a labour camp during the Brezhnev era. All that was missing was an Order of Lenin or Red Star on the frayed lapel. The red tie was simply bad, although the mid-afternoon patrons at the Dredger’s Arms wouldn’t have noticed if he had been wearing a kilt. The couple of swampies propping up the bar looked as though they had been there since opening time, and the barman’s attention was firmly locked on to a horse race on the small TV in the front corner of the room. Teschmaker slipped into the alcove opposite Laverov. The man put his glasses back on before speaking.

  ‘Mr Teschmaker, I hope you appreciate that I have tried to keep you out of this for your own protection?’

  ‘Very commendable, but I’m already in it up to my fucking neck. So let’s drop the bullshit and get on with it. Did you find out about Puzanov?’

  Laverov looked at him contemptuously. ‘I talked to my people in Moscow and I can tell you that there is no record of anyone by that name on our files.’

  ‘Then why bother to meet me?’ Teschmaker snapped angrily.

  ‘To stop you making a fool of yourself or getting yourself killed.’

  ‘I can assure you I have no intention of doing either of those things.’

  ‘At our last meeting you asked me if I was interested in the gardener or the bouquet. I must assume from that conversation that you know what those words represent?’ Laverov looked at him enquiringly but Teschmaker decided against volunteering anything until he got what he’d come for. Laverov shrugged and continued. ‘Well, let us say that you do know these things. Where does that leave us?’

  ‘With a damned good reason to exchange information.’

  ‘So you have things you can tell me. Maybe you could start with the whereabouts of Sydney Morris?’

  Teschmaker shook his head. That was one thing he wasn’t about to divulge. ‘No. But I suggest we stop this shadow-boxing. I know about the sabotage teams. And I know what Rusak is after. So just tell me about Puzanov.’

  ‘I told you he doesn’t exist —’

  ‘Crap!’

  For a moment Laverov looked as though he was about to leave, but then his face broke into a huge grin. ‘You are a hard man, Mr Teschmaker.’ He dug in his jacket pocket and produced his cigarette case. He lit a cigarette and slid the case across the table. ‘So, let me tell you the story. I’m afraid I wasn’t exactly honest with you when we first met. I had not been investigating Sydney Morris or any of the foreign scientists; he was merely a name that came up while I was digging into Oleg Rusak’s business dealings.’ Laverov paused and inhaled deeply on his cigarette before continuing. ‘As you know, he had been a member of the parliament and while in the Duma abused his position to gain access to a great deal of information which he subsequently used to further his criminal activities. My superiors thought it would be a good idea to take a look at the documents he accessed while in the Duma and I was chosen to undertake the task. The most surprising thing we came up with was his interest in the claims by General Lebed that a number of small nuclear devices had been manufactured for use by the GRU or the KGB.’

  ‘And which went missing.’

  ‘So Lebed claimed. There was a great deal of discomfort about those claims and an investigation was set up to verify them. According to what we discovered, Rusak had followed the investigation with great interest and had obtained certain documents containing the code names of the agents responsible for placing the devices in the target countries. Unfortunately, when we followed up on these teams we found that, as a security precaution, the members had all been eliminated.’

  Teschmaker looked at him in disbelief. ‘You mean they were killed by their own people?’

  ‘It was the way we did things back then. There was a lot at stake and I should point out that a majority of the combat agents were nationals of the target countries and seen as expendable.’

  ‘Oh, that makes it much more understandable.’ Teschmaker did nothing to veil his contempt. Laverov ignored it.

  ‘Then it came to light that Sydney Morris had vanished. At first it was assumed that he, like the rest of the development team, had been liquidated, but as we both know that was not the case.’

  ‘So that’s why you want to find him — to silence him and finish the job?’

  Laverov ground out the remains of his cigarette. ‘We don’t do that kind of thing any more. At first I didn’t realise that we had a problem. I went to the Czech Republic and arrived a little too late.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Rusak’s people had already lifted him. The locals were not well disposed to assist me, but took great delight in letting me know that the people who had taken Morris were Russians. It wasn’t much of a leap to work out why Rusak was after Morris. There was only one reason anyone would want him — to discover where the teams had been sent. Though Morris would never have been given that information, it would have been easy enough for him to work it out.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t follow. How would he have done that?’

  ‘Every team needed detailed instructions on assembling and placing the device, as well as arming the booby trap on each of the caches. The person responsible for that briefing was Sydney Morris. And, as I said, the teams usually included at least one foreign agent-boyevik, or combat agent, so once he knew their nationality he would know where the team was headed.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Teschmaker interjected, ‘these devices are protected by booby traps? Doesn’t that mean they could be detonated accidentally? Someone unearths one and . . .’

  Laverov shook his head emphatically. ‘Not possible. From what I understand, the bomb and the remote detonation device are concealed in separate locations. And each has what the documents describe as a molniya, a “lightning” booby trap designed to destroy the devices. All the advice I have received agrees that the molniya is incapable of setting off the main explosive.’

  ‘A small nuclear explosion,’ Teschmaker said quietly.

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  The two men sat in silence for a moment. Teschmaker picked up the cigarette case and took out a cigarette. It was from the packet he had given Laverov the previous evening. He lit it. ‘So Rusak wants to retrieve one or more of these devices. Why? Obviously not so Russia can complete its nuclear stocktaking.’

  Laverov looked at him as though he was stupid. ‘Money. Can you imagine how much a terrorist organisation would pay to get its hands on one of them?’

  Teschmaker shook his head. The entire scenario seemed surreal. At a pinch he could accept Sydney Morris’s claim that he had worked on developing the technology purely as an intellectual challenge. But that the devices had then been manufactured and deployed — that was much harder to comprehend. And then the Russians had managed to lose them! If it wasn’t so horrific it would be laughable.

  ‘So tell me about the man who doesn’t exist.’

  Laverov arched an eyebrow. ‘As I said, we have never had
an agent named Puzanov.’

  ‘But?’ Teschmaker sensed the Russian was playing with him.

  ‘Grigori Vasilyevich Puzanov was the cover name given to an agent-boyevik on one of the teams.’

  ‘A Russian?’

  ‘Yes. Andrei Yakunin. Now, you must tell me how you came across his name, because if there is even the slightest chance he’s alive then I no longer have to rely on getting information from Sydney Morris.’

  ‘Unfortunately he’s dead. Has been for years.’

  ‘You know this for certain?’

  ‘Well, short of digging up his remains I’d say it’s a pretty sure bet. I’ve seen his grave. But surely the important thing is who was on the team with him? If he was the Russian, what nationality were the other members?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Teschmaker. I can assume, if you have seen his grave, that we are talking about this country?’

  Teschmaker nodded. ‘But if we can find the other members of his team, they could tell us where this damn thing is.’

  ‘No. I had access to every available file but most of them, especially those designated as obektovoye delo or target files, were destroyed to preserve security or have simply vanished. However, I did come across some copies of training schedules that had survived through bureaucratic oversight. One of them had a list of each agent-boyevik; though it employed the code names, it appears that Yakunin wasn’t working with foreign nationals. The foreigners all had code names in their own languages, while the illegals had Russian ones.’

  ‘Illegals?’

  ‘Soviet citizens who had been trained to live abroad,’ Laverov explained patiently.

  ‘Sleepers?’

  ‘Is that what you call them? Fine. Sleepers. But as I said, in Yakunin’s case the code names were Russian — Starshina and Zolushka.’

  ‘Senior and Cinderella?’ It sounded like a fairytale that had gone sadly astray.

  ‘That’s all we have and there is no way of finding out if they are still alive or what their real names were. The best we can do is agree that somewhere in this city there is one of these devices and set about finding it. The chances are that it is no longer operable, but I’m not certain that Rusak would care one way or the other.’