Georgi came with his heavies. It was the first time the two men had met since the night out that had ended at the Cosmos Hotel, and so quite possibly Georgi feared that Gerasimov had planned some revenge. But Gerasimov, greeting him at the entrance to the block, was all charm. ‘Georgi … It’s been a long time. And I never thanked you for the great time I had with your girls, better, I should think, than you’ve ever had with that fat slut of mine.’
Georgi darted an uneasy look, trying to guess whether or not rage lay behind this male bravado, but Gerasimov was too well trained to betray his real feelings to an Armenian spiv. He put his arm round Georgi’s shoulder and gave a genial smile. ‘Do you want to come up?’ he asked.
‘I have things to do,’ said Georgi. ‘The Samara’s clean. She’s humming like a bird.’
‘I’m grateful. But now I have another favour to ask you.’
‘Fire away.’
‘A Volkswagen van.’
‘You want a van?’
‘A specific van. A white Volkswagen transporter that disappeared in September 1991 on its way from the Lubyanka Centre to the transport department depot.’
‘Stolen?’
‘Sold. A private deal by one of our drivers …’
Georgi narrowed his eyes. ‘You want the man?’
‘No. Not the man. The transporter. And not to keep. Just to look. It’s a lead in an investigation. I can’t say more.’
Georgi looked uncertain. ‘It’s a long time ago.’
‘I know. But there can’t have been many vans like that from the Lubyanka.’
‘I can ask around …’
‘That’s all I ask. From our end, these days, everything’s a pale shade of grey. But you, from your end – well, quite honestly, Georgi – when a police state falls to pieces, it’s over to people like you.’
Again Georgi narrowed his eyes. Was this a compliment or an insult? But Gerasimov kept up his genial façade. ‘It would be a big favour,’ he said. ‘I mean, not just to me but to the people above me. They’d owe you one.’
Georgi nodded. ‘And you don’t want it back?’
‘No. Just a look.’
‘At the Lubyanka?’ He looked uneasy.
‘No. Here will do.’
Georgi walked back towards his Mercedes. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
Gerasimov now drove back to the Lubyanka.
‘Did you find the van?’ asked the dispatch officer.
‘No. Let’s look at the log again.’ Gerasimov followed the duty officer to his desk. ‘M. Gorbachev. Who’s the joker?’
The officer shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Who was on duty that shift?’
‘I was.’
‘Aren’t you meant to check that the drivers sign their names?’
‘In theory, of course …’
‘And you can’t remember who took the van?’
The man now began to look uneasy. ‘Offhand, no. So many vehicles come and go …’
‘But not brand-new German vans.’
‘If I could remember the bastard, I swear …’
‘Swear all you like. It still looks bad.’
The man now began to look afraid. ‘What can I do?’
‘Do you want my advice?’
‘Yes.’
‘Report it stolen. That’s what they said at the depot. Call the militia. Let them find it.’
The young officer put his hand on the telephone. ‘Right away, comrade. Now I have been informed that it never reached the depot, I’ll report it stolen.’
It was now dark, and time to pay a visit to Peshkov, the man in the second division of Directorate S of the First Chief Directorate, the KGB’s counterfeiters, the best in the world – purveyors of everything from United States passports to British birth certificates, German Ausweise, French share certificates – anything and everything required for operations abroad.
Gerasimov decided not to call on Peshkov in his offce. The visit might come to the attention of Orlov’s friends in the Second Chief Directorate. It would be equally compromising if Gerasimov were to go to his home in a conspicuously official car like the Volga. He therefore took a bus back to the Ulitsa Akademika Koroleva to pick up the Samara.
The car purred down the Prospekt Mira towards the centre of Moscow. Georgi’s mechanic had serviced the car well, as well as Georgi had serviced his wife. This thought, that would once have made Nikolai grind his teeth, now produced only a sardonic smile.
Gerasimov knew the block where Peshkov lived: it had been built to house Directorate S personnel. With the air of a friend who was paying a visit, Gerasimov showed his service card to the concierge and took the lift to the fourth floor.
Peshkov’s wife came to the door. With the same nonchalance, Gerasimov said: ‘Trouble at the office’ and walked through the door.
‘Grigori,’ she shouted.
Peshkov was eating his supper off a low table in the living room while watching TV. Two children came out ahead of him. The elder, a girl, stood staring at Gerasimov; the younger, a boy of eight or so, dangled from the exercise bars on one of the walls of the hall.
Peshkov came out of the living room, frowning and wiping his mouth. With a nod of his head he sent his wife into the kitchen. The children followed. He gestured to Gerasimov, who had taken off his shoes, to follow him into the living room where he turned down the sound on the TV.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you at home,’ said Gerasimov.
‘Never mind,’ said Peshkov. He was only forty – Gerasimov knew this from his file – but being bald looked older. Perhaps he was ill.
‘I’ve been ordered to make certain internal enquiries …’
‘By?’
‘General Savchenko, but it has been authorized by Bakatin.’
Peshkov nodded. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Khrulev.’
‘What about him?’
‘He ran his own outfit within the Second Chief Directorate.’
‘Yes.’
‘The last operation was insulated …’
Peshkov was looking at the television. Was he bored by what Gerasimov was saying? Or trying to hide the fact that he was scared?
‘It was insulated,’ Gerasimov went on, ‘because it was an operation to recover icons and some of our own people had been selling them in the West.’
‘We are never told about operations,’ said Peshkov.
‘But you knew that this one was for Khrulev’s eyes only?’
‘Yes.’
‘Captain Orlov was your liaison …’
Peshkov said nothing.
‘Not even your department head knew.’
‘No.’
‘You answered to Khrulev.’
‘Yes.’
‘And now’s Khrulev’s dead.’
‘So I hear.’
‘So who ordered you to provide new passports for Orlov?’
Peshkov did not move. With his eyes still on the television, he picked up a slice of bread from his plate.
‘Orlov left the service,’ said Gerasimov. ‘He’s now in the West. We have reason to believe that you provided the passports. We want to know the names.’
Peshkov took a bite out of the slice of bread and chewed it slowly in his mouth. ‘Orlov has left the service?’ he asked.
‘Yes. You must have known that.’
‘To provide documents for an ex-officer would be a serious offence,’ said Peshkov.
‘Yes,’ said Gerasimov.
‘Why would one do it?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I would if I knew.’
It was clear that Peshkov was not going to admit to what he had done. ‘Listen,’ said Gerasimov, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘No one is interested in prosecuting anyone who through misplaced loyalty, or even for a dollar or two, gives a little help to a friend. No one’s interested in knowing who’s a progressive and who’s a hard-liner in your department because, quite frankly, as long as you do you
r job, no one cares. What interests us is a list of names, nationalities, passport numbers, on my desk, or sent through the post. No questions asked. No one told.’
‘And if not?’
‘The Cold War is over, comrade. There are ten times too many people doing our job. Some are going to have to go and, to be quite honest, there aren’t that many opportunities for someone in your line of work.’
Gerasimov left his card on the table, then put on his shoes and let himself out, leaving Peshkov in front of the television while his wife and children cowered in the kitchen. He was hungry, but he was also tired – too tired to eat out or go back to any bed but his own. He drove back to the Ulitsa Akademika Koroleva.
There was a smell of cooking in the flat. In the kitchen, the table was set for two. A fat round candle stood between the salt cellar and the pepper pot. Hearing him enter, Ylena shuffled out of the bedroom. Both her lips and her eyes were red – the lips from lipstick, the eyes from tears.
‘Expecting company?’ Gerasimov asked sarcastically.
She sniffed, shuffled into the kitchen and lit the candle.
Gerasimov shook his head, incredulous that after ten years of marriage he could still be surprised at the depths of his wife’s vulgarity and sentimentality. A reconciliation dinner! He washed his face and hands in the bathroom before going to shut himself in the bedroom, but he was waylaid by the smell of bortsch, and his appetite got the better of his resolve. He sat down at the table. Ylena ladled the soup into his plate, then sat, her plate empty, sniffing soulfully and looking pathetically into his eyes.
The telephone rang. She went to answer it. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ She came back into the kitchen. ‘He thinks he’s found your van. He’ll bring it round tomorrow night.’
Gerasimov left for work at the Lubyanka at seven the next morning. Before going to his office, he had a word with Melnik, the transport officer. When he got to his desk he found a letter. His name was handwritten. There was no stamp. Inside was a sheet of paper with a list of names, numbers and nationalities – the passports forged for Orlov by Peshkov, one American, one German, one Swiss, one French and one Soviet.
Gerasimov went to see Savchenko. ‘This list of passports, Comrade General.’
‘Well done.’ Savchenko took the list and studied it. ‘Why a Soviet passport, I wonder?’
‘I asked myself the same question.’
‘Did Peshkov have any ideas?’
‘Peshkov admitted to nothing. This list is off the record.’
Savchenko nodded. ‘So we have no way of knowing whether our friend Orlov is travelling around Europe as the American Edward Burton, the German Hans Lauch, the Swiss Franz Grauber or the Frenchman Marcel Jeanneret?’
‘No. Presumably in Germany he will be a German, and to get at the bank accounts in Zürich he will be Grauber, the Swiss.’
‘And the Russian, Serotkin?’
‘To return to Moscow incognito.’
Savchenko nodded. ‘Do we know if photographs had already been affixed to the passports?’
‘No.’
‘Almost certainly not. Orlov will have changed his appearance.’
‘So even with the names and the passport numbers he won’t be easy to find.’
‘Unless …’ Savchenko leaned forward and took a piece of paper from the top of the pile on his desk. By its shiny surface, and smudged Latin lettering, Gerasimov judged that it was a letter from the West that had been faxed and refaxed a number of times. ‘There has been a request through Interpol for our assistance in the case of the murders of the Maslyukovs in Berlin.’
Gerasimov frowned. ‘How will we respond?’
‘How indeed?’ Savchenko sat back in his chair. ‘The usual thing is to send some dumb ox from the militia who speaks no German and would act more as a hindrance than a help. But in this case …’
‘Tell them about Orlov?’
‘Who was acting on our orders? No. That would be most … damaging to our relations with the Federal Republic. But if we sent you to Berlin, and if you could gain access to their database, then you should be able to find Orlov before they do.’
‘And when I do?’
‘Find out what he’s up to.’
‘And if he won’t tell me?’
‘Bring him home.’
‘And if he won’t come home?’
‘Insist. Point out the danger he runs of being prosecuted for the Maslyukovs’ murder, and the harm it would do to Russia’s credibility as a civilized nation.’
‘And if he still won’t come home?’
‘Then eliminate him. If Orlov was to fall into the hands of the Germans, there might be a public trial. Think of the harm that would do to the reputation of the Russian Federation. If there is the slightest risk, you must do your duty and eliminate him. However admirable his services may have been in the past, he cannot be allowed to compromise the future.’ And, as if to illustrate the point, Savchenko drove the butt of his cigarette into the base of the glass ashtray with a savagery unexpected in such a portly, amiable man.
Once the decision was made, and the order given, the different departments of the new security service of the Russian Federation went to work with all the efficiency of the old soviet KGB. There was a minor dispute as to whether the Deutschmarks required should be charged to the department of the militia that dealt with Interpol or the foreign currency account of Directorate S. It was quickly resolved and Gerasimov was told that he would leave for Berlin on his own passport in two days’ time.
All he needed, now, was any evidence he could glean from the Volkswagen transporter. He telephoned Partovsky at the Tretyakov Gallery to say that his presence would be required that evening, and at six went to fetch him in the Samara. Partovsky looked uneasy as he climbed into the car next to Gerasimov, and Gerasimov’s high spirits made him more nervous still. ‘It may be difficult for me to say for sure …’ he began.
‘There must have been some documents,’ said Gerasimov, ‘to get you onto the ferry.’
‘Yes, of course. The logbook, the insurance, that kind of thing.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘They were left in the van.’
They reached the Ulitsa Akademika Koroleva. Gerasimov parked the Samara by his block. Partovsky accompanied him up to the apartment. Again, there was a smell of cooking: Ylena was keeping up the blitz on his baser instincts, doubtless with Georgi providing the sausage and the wine. She looked disconcerted when Partovsky came in behind her husband, and, like Partovsky, regarded Gerasimov’s high spirits with suspicion.
Gerasimov introduced Partovsky. ‘He’s here to identify the van.’
The two men took off their coats and shoes and went through to the living room.
‘Some vodka?’ asked Gerasimov.
‘No, I …’
‘Come on.’ Gerasimov went to the glass fronted cupboard, took out a half-full bottle and two glasses. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘we’ve found the Volkswagen. That’s something to celebrate.’
Ylena came in. ‘Will you eat with us?’ she asked Partovsky.
‘No, thank you. My wife …’
‘Of course he’ll eat with us,’ said Gerasimov. ‘Who knows when Georgi will turn up.’ He turned to Partovsky. ‘Call your wife. Tell her you’ll be late.’
‘Very well. If you insist.’ Partovsky acquiesced but made no move to telephone his home.
Gerasimov raised his glass. ‘To Comrade Orlov, wherever he may be.’
‘To Orlov,’ said Partovsky, also raising his glass, and then adding with a touch of defiance. ‘To Andrei Orlov, a brave man.’
They emptied their glasses. Gerasimov refilled them. ‘And to our wives.’
‘To our wives.’
‘As faithful as the day is long.’
Ylena sniffed. ‘It’s ready,’ she said.
‘Then let’s eat.’
They went through to the kitchen. A third place had been set by Ylena, the candle taken away.
�
��I have a wife who can not only cook,’ said Gerasimov, ‘but who to get hold of the food will do what has to be done.’
‘You’re a lucky man,’ said Partovsky.
‘Lucky indeed,’ said Gerasimov.
Ylena served up the bortsch. They ate, silent except for the occasional slurp.
‘We have a son,’ Gerasimov said eventually, ‘but I rarely see him.’
‘He’s with my mother,’ said Ylena to Partovsky.
‘The Russian babushka,’ said Gerasimov. ‘What would we do without her?’
‘Do you have a child?’ Ylena asked Partovsky.
‘Yes. A daughter.’
‘How nice.’
For a moment, Gerasimov was almost touched by the wistful, childlike look on his wife’s face. But it was too late for pity. The doorbell rang.
Ylena went to answer it, then returned to the kitchen. ‘It’s Georgi. He’ll wait downstairs.’
Gerasimov looked at his watch. ‘Excellent.’ He turned to Partovsky. ‘Would you like some more?’
‘No, thank you. I’ve had enough.’
‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Another time.’
The two men put on their coats and shoes. Ylena hovered in the kitchen. Partovsky followed Gerasimov out of the flat and down the landing to the lift.
‘All we need to know,’ said Gerasimov, ‘is whether or not this is the van you brought from Germany to Tallinn.’
‘I understand.’
‘The question of how it disappeared need not concern you.’
Partovsky nodded.
There was a Dutch journalist with a Russian photographer in the lift. Gerasimov and Partovsky stood in silence side by side as it descended to the ground floor.
Georgi was waiting in the lobby. Two of his men were outside the door. He narrowed his eyes at Partovsky. ‘Who’s this?’
‘He brought the van to Russia. He can tell us if it’s the right one.’
‘Is it his?’
‘Is it yours?’ asked Gerasimov, smiling.
‘No,’ said Partovsky. ‘It isn’t mine.’
They went out to the parking lot. A white VW van was parked next to Georgi’s Mercedes. It had Soviet licence plates.
‘It wasn’t easy to find,’ said Georgi, his little eyes flitting to and fro between Gerasimov and Partovsky as if trying to discover why Gerasimov should be in such a bumptious mood.
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