Zara's Game

by Jo Black

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Very good. Then you have my authority to act on the matter as you see fit. The domestic problems are in hand. We will carry out this purge as you suggest, find those that are planting discord in our ranks, and remove them. We cannot allow this continual meddling in our affairs by foreign actors to create imperfections in our system. Perhaps it is time we indulged in meddling in their affairs to remind them another of our skills has not been lost?’

  ‘I think that is an area of expertise you excel at. I’m sure you will require no assistance to create the desired outcome.’

  ‘I shall quite enjoy it.’ The president smiled. ‘One always likes to return to the old game when the new becomes stale. I presume you have not had time to make plans for your first evening in Moscow, so I insist you and your beautiful wife attend the performance of Swan Lake at the Bolshoi as my guest this evening, prior to the banquet.’

  ‘It would be our honour.’

  Zara looked out of the window in awe as the convoy pulled in through the red walls of The Kremlin. ‘Quite something isn’t it?’ Grigor said with a enigmatic smile.

  ‘I didn’t ever expect to be going inside.’

  ‘Fortunately you are here as a guest of your husband and the president. I suspect if it had not been the case, and you had been brought as a guest of one of my employees then your stay would regrettably be less pleasant,’ Grigor said with a laugh.

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘It is strange is it not? For so long our agencies have fought a secret war against each other, and yet now here we are.’

  ‘I’m not the first agent to have switched sides to your house...’

  ‘So are you officially defecting Miss Scott?’

  ‘Defecting? I’m not sure it’s even possible given my status was likely rescinded long before I arrived. Besides, if you’re expecting to learn any great secrets from me, you would be disappointed. My relationship with an agent of your state ensured I was never trusted with anything more significant than dealing with the basket case of Pakistan. I expect you have better intelligence there than we do.’

  ‘Probably. But you know Zara; this business is not about revealing secrets. It is about understanding them. You bring a unique perspective from your country that my agents simply do not possess. They cannot understand the minds of the English any more than yours can understand the minds of the Russian. You can steal the secret, but to understand it. That is the trick, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  The convoy pulled up to a halt outside the Kremlin Palace. ‘We should drink tea together. Soon.’ Grigor handed Zara his business card from an ornate gold case. ‘Enjoy your stay at The Kremlin. Your husband is very important to us. We are all at your service as his most beloved wife.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to answer; I suspect it’s one of the state secrets they’re discussing during the drive over here. But why is he so important?’

  Grigor smiled. ‘The world is descending into anarchy and chaos Zara, you can see it, but your husband can not only see it, he can chart a course through it. For The Motherland to survive we need to restore her before the jackals pick all the meat from the carcass and leave only a skeleton behind. Russia must be returned to The Soviet. This experiment with capitalism has been an abject failure, and only served to enrich the few greedy pigs with their noses in the trough. It is time the pigs were slaughtered and roasted on the fire so the many can feast on what they have gorged.’ Zara suppressed a smile. ‘Something did amuse you?’

  ‘My apologies. My husband often speaks in metaphors. I had often considered he was just a crazed philosopher who spent too much time in Parisian bars attempting to impress gullible undergraduates with some faux-intelligentsia, but it seems to be a very cultural thing.’

  ‘It is a hangover from Stalin. We have learned to talk in metaphors that can be ambiguous so we can never be directly denounced of saying what we actually mean to say, and can simply dismiss it as misinterpretation. Or as you suggest, we just try and impress pretty girls with our intellect. Good Afternoon Zara. I wish you a most pleasant stay at the Kremlin Palace.’

  ‘We’re staying in the Kremlin?’

  ‘Where else would you stay? Did your husband not tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He has a state apartment here.’

  ‘He’s full of surprises.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  The door opened and Zara stepped out of the car to be met by Alex. They walked up the steps. ‘You never told me we were staying here.’

  ‘You never asked.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘We’ve been invited as the president’s guest to the ballet and state banquet this evening.’

  ‘Nothing special then...’ Zara replied.

  80

  Zara watched from the comfort of a far-too elaborate and ostentatiously palatial four-poster bed in a grand bedroom of the Kremlin Palace as Alex buttoned up his pristine white immaculately pressed and starched dress shirt. ‘I keep thinking I’m dreaming. This is the most surreal experience of my life.’ Alex turned round to look at her as he picked up a pair of hammer and sickle stamped gold cufflinks from the nearby table.

  ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘Will I...’

  ‘The novelty wears off quickly enough. I hated this place growing up. All the kids out there with their bourgeoisie black market videos and bootlegged music, and I was stuck in here being lectured on the history of the Soviet economic model in the military school.’

  ‘Is that why you left?’

  ‘Partly. Teenage rebellion. You know how it is.’

  ‘Well not really, my teenage rebellion involved having a cheeky smoke on the way home, not chucking a ladder over the Kremlin wall and running away to the evil and decadent British Empire. Bit of a different league. So what’s the plan for today?’

  ‘I have to visit someone for the president. Deliver a message.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘Take advantage. Not many western tourists get a full tour of The Kremlin, least of all former M.I.6 agents.’

  ‘Still getting used to it being the former M.I.6 agent. My supervisor would spit his tea out if he knew I was sat in a car with the head of the F.S.B last night. Might take a bit of an issue with being in the president’s box with him at the ballet as well.’

  ‘They’ll know by now. I should imagine at least half a dozen people in that audience developed a sudden need to leave before the first act was complete, for some strange reason.’

  ‘Burgess, McClean and now Scott. A new era of Anglo-Russian politics, yet the defections continue. At least I can tell them I was seduced by a handsome agent in a reverse honey-trap.’

  ‘I always thought you seduced me,’ Alex said putting his tunic on and buttoning it up.

  ‘Call it fifty fifty.’ Alex finished dressing, walked over and sat on the bed. ‘So are we allowed to talk about your situation, or has Grigor got the whole room wired up?’

  ‘Probably.’ Alex smiled. ‘Things are fine. There’s nothing for you to worry about here. I just need to take care of a few domestic issues then we’ll get back to your plan to save the world from itself soon enough.’

  ‘I thought we were playing your game now?’

  ‘No. I think we’re all playing Zara’s game. You just want us to think we’re playing our own.’

  ‘Who told you that? I bet it was Hani.’

  ‘Good guess. Something about the secret to a successful marriage. Let your wife make the decisions that you agree to or words to that effect.’

  ‘Told you Hani was smart.’

  ‘I have to go. I’ll be back before dinner.’

  ‘Should I stay in my room?’

  ‘Why? Have you been naughty?’

  ‘No...just. Feel like everyone thinks I’m here to burgle the place then run off out of the gate with bundles of documents under my arms.’

  ‘I think they’ve got securit
y under control in that respect. I’ll see you later.’ Alex picked up his coat and headed out of the room. Zara got out of the bed, walked over the grand window and stared out at the snow covered gardens, a picturesque but strangely chilling scene that would make a nice tourist postcard were it not for the evoked memories of the era when The Kremlin was the seat of power that was the ever present threat to her own country. And yet she felt no sense of not belonging there, rather than being an enemy intruder, it felt strangely familiar — as if some part of her destiny had drawn her there. She gazed out, captivated by the sheer weight of history the walls contained, imagining all those that had passed before her, and the great game that had been played out from within the walls of The Red Castle. From outwards appearances it seemed an impenetrable and intimidating place of ultimate power, but she wondered if its occupants didn’t feel the same fragility and terror at the prospect of annihilation that those on the opposing side felt, and the stoic rhetoric was merely a front to their sense of isolation, persecution, and demonization by the supposed powers of freedom and democracy, powers Zara had long since learnt were nothing more than a facade for the self-interests of the privileged few. There was grandness to the Soviet ideal that appealed, however poorly it had been executed, and Zara couldn’t help but feel some admiration for Lenin’s grand vision of social justice. She stared at his statue in the centre of the garden, one hand held aloft, book in the other, and wondered what might have been if he had survived long enough to remain architect for the implementation of the principals of the revolution before Stalin transformed them into his own cult of personality. Perhaps nothing much would have really changed, perhaps Stalin really was a much needed, if brutal, next step in the progress to transform the agrarian idealists into an industrialised military power. Perhaps the brutality was inevitable, and unavoidable, to make Russia as she needed to be. As she finally returned from her thoughts, Zara resolved to explore more of the history and principles to better understand the world as Alex saw it. Removed from the constraints of her former employer she could see Marxism from a more academic perspective and free from the pollution of counter-argument brought about by those with alternate agendas. For all she felt she knew of the world, in many ways, Zara realised her real education was just beginning.

  81

  Alex’s state-flagged limousine drew up behind the lines of military trucks and F.S.B cars as they reached the circular end of the long drive to the faux neo-classical mansion in the densely wooded suburban district of Moscow that had once been home, and still was in parts, to the modest traditional tin roof dachas of the communist party and military elite. Many of the plots had been, or were in the process of being, torn down and replaced with McMansion monstrosities: questionable pastiches of architecture borrowed from just about any style you care to mention to suit the whims of the over-pampered and preciously narcissistic oligarchs’ wives who commissioned them. They had embraced capitalist values with zeal, and created in the process an entirely new arms race fought with credit cards, expensive handbags, shoe collections, and oversized over-furnished homes that would make the Tsar’s palaces look like Scandinavian minimalism.

  The French influence on Mikhail’s house was clear: as some scaled down version of Versailles, although bastardised with the usual neo-Georgian English/Roman classical portico, pillars, and sash windows. It was a house that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be, torn between interpretations of the past, and an idealised view of modern luxury, that bore no relation to either beyond the superficial. In many ways a reflection of the minds that commissioned it.

  The black uniformed soldiers of the Kremlin Guard’s Special Forces unit spilled out from the back of the trucks. German Shepherds strained on leashes panting out clouds of hot breath as they sucked in air for any scent of hostility. The troops were quickly corralled into order as Alex’s adjutant opened his car door. Alex emerged, leather gloved hand wrapped firmly round his cane to steady his exit as his boots slipped slightly on the ice compacted beneath the fresh snow, he stood up straight and felt the icy cold air assault his nostrils, instantly freezing the moisture inside that had warmed from the comfort of his Audi S8’s powerful climate control — built to keep out the toughest of winter conditions, be it Bavarian or Siberian. He stared across the gardens, now covered in a thick blanket of snow, before slowly plodding his way through the tracks made by the trucks towards the grand double front doors. The house guards had already surrendered to the overwhelming forces present. As Igor made his way down the steps, Alex didn’t look up from below his deep brimmed cap — now catching a light dusting of snow, as he brushed nonchalantly past as if Igor wasn’t even present. Igor looked back towards him as if to say something, but realised it was pointless, and accepted his fate of being bundled into the back of a waiting truck with the other guards.

  Alex stamped the compacted snow off his boots before placing them under the electric polisher in the hall to rebuff them back to black. Not out of any particular good manners to prevent staining the no-doubt expensive Chinese or Persian tufted rugs and carpets, but merely a practical task to prevent the undignified slipping about on the over-polished imported French marble floor in the grand salon hallway. His men already lined all the doors as several F.S.B agents began ransacking Mikhail’s study and packing all its contents into sealed containers. Alex made his way slowly, but assertively, towards the double doors to the grand rear salon at the back of the house. He flung the doors open in a possibly too theatrical manner, imagining his best interpretation of how his predecessors may have desired their entrance to best reflect the mood of “The Boss.”

  Mikhail didn’t look up from the sofa where he was sat nursing a crystal cut bowl glass of (what Alex assumed to be, based on the fact he was swilling it around and nosing its aroma) his most expensive cognac. Alex walked into the room slowly, tapping the length of his cane against the leather palm of his glove as he surveyed the room silently before reaching the oversized classical armchair located next to the fire, burning crackling apple logs and radiating warmth into the otherwise too cold room, where the grand high ceilings and over-sized proportions of its architecture were better suited to the milder climate of the French or English countryside, and not the depths of the Russian steppe. Alex unbuttoned his coat without removing it, suggesting the manner of his visit was completely bereft of even the basics of accepted formal etiquette. Boots, hat, coat. It was a visit from the past when the exercise of power was to remind the occupants of the house they owned no property, and had no right to private space. Everything belonged to The Party, and the agents of The Party would enter and do as they pleased. Mikhail swallowed, a veteran of the system, he recognised every theatrical trick Alex was playing, and knew each was designed to transport him back from the current illusion he had built of safety, protection, and privilege, behind his own rented army, to the world he thought they had left behind, but understood had merely taken a reasonable vacation and would once again become a spectre that haunted every Russian’s peaceful existence.

  Alex sat under the dark shadow of his hat peak, staring intently at Mikhail who simply ignored him and focused his attention on savouring the aroma of his cognac. Many minutes passed. No words were spoken. Alex just stared; Mikhail felt The Dragon’s eyes burning into him, unblinking, relentless. It reached the point where he could not even speak for fear of the broken voice he’d produce from a mouth now parched with fear despite the lack of appearance otherwise. This is how it was. There was nothing to be said. He’d been judged, tried, and sentenced in his absence with no rights of appeal. Perhaps Alex would have liked him to speak, engage a little in the intellectual debate of their opposing views of the future of the country — Alex’s hard-line Marxism demanding a return to the era of tough parentage where the Soviet ruled over her wayward children with an iron fist of discipline, or Mikhail’s libertarian free-wheeling capitalism where the weak were trampled by the powerful in a different way. There seemed little point, this was Mikhail’s t
ime, he would not grant any more of it to his enemy than he was forced to, instead choosing to reflect on the moments he wished to remember most.

  Bored of the psychological mind game he was playing, Alex got up and walked over. He took out a small pad of paper from his napoleon pocket in his coat and an ornate Mont Blanc fountain pen. He tossed the pad down on the table in front of Mikhail and held out the pen for him to take, when Mikhail refused to do so, using the dragon’s head of his cane, he placed it under Mikhail’s chin — forcing him to look up at him and acknowledge the offer of the pen.

  ‘Take it.’

  Mikhail refused again, Alex pressed home the point by rotating the dragon until its pointed nose stuck up into the soft skin under Mikhail’s chin and began to press in to the point of discomfort. Reluctantly, Mikhail took the pen. Alex immediately retracted the cane and tapped it down on the pad of paper.

  ‘Names.’

  Alex walked over to the piano and stared at it.

  ‘What names?’ Mikhail finally managed to utter.

  Alex pressed a few keys on the piano then looked over his shoulder slightly. ‘You will denounce your conspirators. You can assume we know these names, so any deception will serve no purpose. Your denouncement will merely serve as your testimony of their guilt, as theirs to yours.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘I won’t pretend there is anything to do that can help your situation Mikhail. But your denouncement will save Ludmila, and Oksana, from sharing your fate. If you don’t co-operate...’ Alex gave a nonchalant and dismissive shrug then sighed. ‘It is your choice.’

  Alex took off his leather gloves. He sat down at the piano and stretched his fingers. He began to play “The Swan Theme” from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, softly, and expertly, on the piano. Mikhail stared at him, this black uniformed apparition from the past transporting him to the home of his childhood when another black-suited apparition had said much the same words to his father. Mikhail looked at the photo of himself with his wife and daughter then looked at the pad.