Bearpit

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘What about the civilian militia?’

  ‘I am empowered to investigate and handle crimes affecting KGB personnel,’ said Panchenko, quoting regulations again.

  ‘In those first few moments in the apartment you told him the arrest was upon my orders?’ backtracked Malik.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And all he said was that he wanted to change?’ persisted Malik. ‘No protests? Not something like “This is a mistake”?’

  ‘No.’

  Abruptly, trying further to off-balance the man, Malik demanded: ‘No insistence upon making a telephone call to see what it was all about?’

  Panchenko blinked. ‘None at all.’

  It hadn’t worked, Malik realized. Still hoping, he said: ‘What about names?’

  ‘Names?’

  The chance was getting away. Malik said: ‘To what names did Agayans refer?’

  ‘I have told you everything about the conversation between Agayans and myself,’ insisted Panchenko. ‘There was no reference to anyone by name.’

  ‘No further reference to me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or to anyone else?’

  ‘No one.’

  He had not unsettled the other man as he imagined, thought Malik, disappointed. He needed time to analyse everything that had emerged. What more could there be from Panchenko? Malik said: ‘Do you consider from this meeting that your report was satisfactory?’

  ‘I did not understand the importance of several things.’

  ‘The arrest of a KGB division director! The suicide of a KGB division director! And you did not understand the importance of several things!’ The idea came as Malik spoke and he decided it was a good one.

  ‘I apologize with the utmost regret,’ said Panchenko.

  Malik guessed that had been the most difficult concession of all for Panchenko to make. He picked up the report and tossed it contemptuously across the desk towards the security man and said: ‘I am rejecting this as totally unsatisfactory. And recording that rejection upon your file. I want another account covering all the facts that have emerged during this meeting. Within two hours.’

  There was no longer redness in that burnished face. The colour now was an unnatural, white fury. Possibly worthwhile, Malik thought. Furious, the man might include in the revised file something that had not come out under questioning, which was the suddenly occurred reason for making him write it again. To maintain the anger, Malik said as dismissively as possible: ‘You may go now.’

  It was actually the superficiality of Panchenko’s written account that had prompted Malik to conduct a personal interview without imagining so much would be disclosed. But what exactly had been disclosed? Malik demanded of himself objectively. Facts? Or merely impressions, formed from inconsistencies. It was inconsistent for a trained investigator – a strict observer of rules of procedure – to have begun so properly in establishing Agayans’ whereabouts and assembling his squad and then not bothering to time his arrival at the man’s apartment: and then to be so adamant about the length of time Agayans was alone in the bedroom. Which brought him to the biggest inconsistency of all. It was inconceivable for Panchenko to have allowed Agayans go to his bedroom unaccompanied: here Malik thought the explanation unacceptable to the extent of being a downright lie. And why had the man denied knowing the reason for the arrest? Malik distinctly remembered mentioning Afghanistan when he telephoned Gofkovskoye Shosse because he’d immediately considered it a mistake, ahead of the formulation of any specific charge. And what about Panchenko’s demeanour? At the start the man’s attitude had been one of arrogance, practically contempt. Unthinkable from someone so newly promoted, appearing before a joint First Chief Deputy. And then the change. From arrogance to sweated uncertainty. Uncertainty about what? The realization that his behaviour was wrong? Irritation at having his expertise questioned and so easily shown up to be wanting? Or apprehension, at something more? What was it that could be more? Too many questions lacking too many answers. So what was there? Only impressions that he was in danger of imagining to be facts: unsubstantiated, unpresentable, unprovable facts.

  Abruptly Malik recalled the inquiry that had occurred to him during the interview, and reached just as abruptly for the internal telephone. It took less than an hour to get the information from Personnel Records and Malik sat gazing down at the print-out, sure at last of a fact. And even surer that it had significance. Lev Konstantinovich Panchenko had been promoted to colonel and to head the internal security division upon the instigation and personally endorsed recommendation of Victor Ivanovich Kazin.

  The link, decided Malik. Not proof of anything but enough to support the suspicion about Kazin that had arisen and stayed with him from that first encounter. Certainly enough to subject whatever revised report he received from Panchenko to an examination even more rigorous than that which it – and its author – had already undergone. But possibly not an isolated examination. There had been a four-man squad. How much would their individual recollections differ from that of the man who had commanded them? Maybe not at all. But then again, maybe a lot. It was certainly worth conducting individual interviews. Would there be enough time before the inquiry? He regretted now demanding a hearing so quickly.

  Yevgennie Levin was suffused with an unnatural feeling: a sensation verging on the supernatural. He felt as if he were suspended over his own body, like some outside commentator judging himself perform and act and observe the rituals of his normal day. Maybe it was the effect of his mind – or whatever the responsible organ – flooding his body with adrenaline, hyping him through the final moments: keeping him alert. It was absolutely essential he remain totally alert. It had been from the moment he went into the United Nations library to see at once the signal for which he had waited so anxiously, telling him it was tonight. He’d watched himself go through the ritual of a committee meeting (the last ever!) and make his contribution to the Minute records (never read!) and supported a recommendation for a conservation proposal for the rain forests of Brazil (meaningless!) and sought Solov’s approval for the outing that night with Galina and Petr (approved!) and still he watched himself, unable after so long actually to believe it was happening. Judgement so far? Acting entirely as he should have been, unobtrusively, properly, making all the necessary and proper moves.

  Levin’s control wavered the moment he arrived back at the apartment, with Natalia’s shyly smiling photograph on a table and another on the mantelpiece, and felt Galina’s concentration burning into him when he announced to her and Petr that they were dining out.

  ‘Great!’ responded Petr in English, immediately enthusiastic.

  Petr was a fervent American television watcher and was wearing American jeans and a sweatshirt proclaiming UCLA, which occurred to Levin – why did such small things intrude, at a time like this? – to be 3,000 miles out of place. Like he and Galina and Petr were 3,000 miles out of place: more, to be geographically accurate.

  ‘Where?’ asked Galina. She asked the question with dulled expectation.

  ‘The Plaza,’ announced Levin.

  Galina said nothing. Petr said: ‘Neat!’

  Petr wore his American suit – the one he’d bought at Bloomingdale’s – and Levin changed, too: a new suit for a new life. Galina remained in the clothes she was already wearing. They got a cab immediately and the crosstown traffic was unaccountably light, with no holdups or gridlocks. Levin, unthinking and anxious to make conversation, said: ‘Easy tonight, isn’t it?’ and at once Galina said: ‘No, it isn’t easy at all.’

  It was two minutes before seven when Levin guided his wife and son through the narrow side doors off Central Park South but Proctor was already there, waiting by the promised jewellery display directly beyond the central elevator bank.

  Three other people – one a woman and none of whom Levin had seen at any previous meeting – moved protectively and at the same time as the American came forward. Proctor didn’t smile. He said: ‘OK?’

  �
��I think so,’ said Levin.

  ‘Ma’am,’ greeted Proctor politely.

  Galina did not respond.

  ‘Hi, Petr,’ tried Proctor.

  The boy looked curiously between his parents and the strangers but didn’t speak either.

  ‘We’d better go,’ said Proctor.

  ‘Dadda, what is this?’ asked the boy at last.

  ‘You must come,’ said Levin.

  All but Galina started off.

  ‘Please!’ Levin implored her, stopping.

  ‘I want to know what’s happening,’ insisted Petr weakly.

  ‘I can’t,’ protested Galina, unmoving.

  ‘Don’t abandon me! Not now!’ said Levin, imploring more.

  Petr began to back away, frightened. One of the escorts reached out towards him and Galina said, too loud: ‘Don’t you touch him! Don’t you dare touch him!’

  The man stopped the gesture and Proctor said: ‘This isn’t the way, Yevgennie. You know this isn’t the way.’

  ‘Galina!’ begged Levin.

  There were isolated looks from people in the crowded foyer.

  ‘There’s no going back, not now,’ said Proctor.

  ‘Going back where?’ demanded Petr, halfway between belligerence and bewilderment.

  ‘We should go now,’ said Proctor, alert to the woman’s weakening.

  Levin was conscious of it too. He said: ‘I promise I’ll get her out.’

  ‘Who?’ intruded Petr.

  The boy was ignored again.

  ‘Ready, Yevgennie?’ asked Proctor.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Russian with a sigh of finality.

  The group started to move in a slow, inviting way and after a moment’s hesitation Galina started to walk with them, head bent in an effort to hide the sobbing. The unidentified woman immediately went to her, both comforting and concealing. Petr was in the middle, his head in constant movement, eyes bulged. They rounded the Palm Court lobby café to go through the swing doors instead of the central, revolving exit. Two of a fleet of three or maybe four window-blackened limousines pulled immediately away from the far pavement to come against their kerb and Levin felt a push, urging him into the back. Proctor got in to his left and Galina was helped in to his right. Petr was ushered into the front, alongside the driver, with one of the escorts protectively against the door, arm outstretched.

  The cavalcade immediately took off across town, eastwards. Petr said: ‘Please tell me what is happening!’

  ‘We’re going to live in America,’ said Levin simply.

  There was a moment of silence and then the boy tried to turn in the front seat, arms flailing. ‘Defector!’ he shouted. ‘Traitor!’

  The man beside him easily but carefully encompassed the boy in the already outstretched arm. He said: ‘Easy does it, kid. Easy does it.’

  ‘I brought a photograph,’ announced Galina, broken-voiced. ‘I brought a photograph of Natalia.’ Now that it no longer mattered, she wept uncontrollably.

  It was to take five days of frantic but unsuccessful searching through New York by a United Nations rezidentura frightened of recrimination before the defection of Yevgennie Pavlovich Levin was reluctantly admitted to Moscow.

  9

  Determined against any provable association with Panchenko, whom internal, record-keeping security would have had to vet before admission to his office, Kazin decreed their contact be made outside the Directorate building. And insisted, too, that for such a meeting Panchenko wear civilian clothes. There was too much braid and colour in the uniform: too much chance of being remembered by someone. Kazin had not considered the circumstances of where and why it might be remembered. Desperately he was trying to be as protectively careful as he could. In everything. He still knew so little!

  Kazin selected the Marx Prospekt because normally it was busily congested, wanting his to be one car unnoticed among so many. Ironically, adding to his frustration, there was not much traffic because the evening rush was unaccountably light. He drove slowly and in the ordinary lane, tonight keeping away from the restricted central path reserved for government officials. Usually Kazin enjoyed the privilege, disregarding speed limits or traffic signals, always confident of the permanently placed militia stopping any traffic to ensure his unhindered progress.

  He slowed further approaching the Lenina metro station, isolating the waiting Panchenko well before he reached him. The man’s military bearing was obvious without the identifying uniform. He was wearing a grey suit and carrying a dark-coloured topcoat, maybe grey again or blue, and appeared discomfited, as if he were without any clothes at all, shifting from one foot to the other and gazing around, embarrassed. Or perhaps, corrected Kazin immediately, it had nothing at all to do with his unaccustomed dress. Perhaps the man was simply frightened, as Kazin was.

  Panchenko saw him while the car was still some yards away. Kazin pulled against the kerb without the need positively to stop, just brake sufficiently for Panchenko to open the door and get in: the door was still not fully closed when Kazin moved off again.

  ‘I thought this was best,’ said Kazin. It was difficult to remain apparently calm: the questions and demands churned in Kazin’s mind. To avoid unsettling the other man it was vitally important not to sound as desperate as he was. Certainly important for Panchenko never to suspect that Kazin might be trying to distance himself by this unrecorded – but more important, absolutely deniable – meeting.

  ‘Yes,’ accepted Panchenko shortly. He took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, using the movement of wiping his nose to cover clearing his forehead, and Kazin knew the security man was sweating.

  ‘There were no problems at the metro?’ Kazin did not really know what he meant by the question: he was simply holding back, refusing to hurry. He was perspiring too, and glad he could grip the wheel so that the unsteadiness did not show in his hands.

  ‘There are big problems,’ announced Panchenko.

  This was how the conversation had to begin and to continue, with Panchenko and not himself showing the anxiety. Kazin said: ‘Tell me. Everything.’

  ‘Humiliated,’ complained Panchenko, almost petulantly. ‘The fucker humiliated me.’

  Kazin pulled off the Marx Prospekt on to Kalinina to gain a quieter thoroughfare where he would not have to concentrate so much upon the traffic about him. This was not how he expected the account to come from the other man, but the outburst was important. It was precisely the way the security chief had to feel about Vasili Dmitrevich Malik. Kazin said: ‘I need everything from the very beginning: everything in its proper sequence.’

  After compiling two official reports with the hostile interview in between, a chronological recall was easy for Panchenko. Kazin turned off Kalinina to an even lesser used road, putting the Kremlin monolith actually behind them. More questions crowded in upon those he already wanted to ask but he rigidly maintained the private control, saying nothing, knowing it would be wrong to break the narrative. This fury the man had to release, as a safety valve: he could be stoked again if hatred were necessary for anything further.

  ‘See!’ demanded Panchenko. ‘Humiliated! Like I said, the fucker humiliated me!’

  ‘Oh, he did,’ agreed Kazin, jabbing the exposed nerve. ‘He most certainly did: you’ve an enemy there, Lev Konstantinovich. A very bad enemy.’

  ‘And he’s got an enemy in me,’ said Panchenko, with exaggerated, almost childlike bombast. ‘He doesn’t know how bad.’

  Good, thought Kazin, recognizing the attitude; very good. He said: ‘Tell me what really happened. Then we’ll decide the problems.’

  ‘I had no time to prepare: the time I needed to make plans,’ began Panchenko, the defence as rehearsed as the earlier account. ‘You said there would be time to set everything up carefully …’

  ‘I know that,’ encouraged Kazin reassuringly. ‘There’s no criticism.’

  ‘I was bewildered by the call to Gofkovskoye Shosse. More so because it was Malik, not you. When you told me to k
ill him, as we’d planned, I discovered Agayans had left the building and that the car was logged to his apartment, on Gogolevskiy …’

  ‘So that much of your account is completely accurate?’ interrupted Kazin. It was vital to know what could be relied upon and defended and what could not.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Panchenko. ‘The assembly of the squad, too. Although they were not the people I would have taken with me if I’d had the time properly to choose … we met at Verdandskovo: that’s accurate, too. A major – Chernov – a corporal and two rankers. And Agayans did answer the door in his nightclothes.’

  ‘Nine o’clock and he was in bed?’ queried Kazin, remembering the doctors’ reports of sleeplessness.

  ‘There were a lot of pills on the side table in the bedroom. He saw me looking and said the doctors had recommended he try to sleep earlier, using them. Complained it wasn’t working.’

  ‘Did you tell Malik this? Put it in either report?’

  ‘Of course not!’ said Panchenko irritably. ‘The story of my being in the bedroom has got to be that I surprised him in the act of suicide, hasn’t it!’

  Who the hell did Panchenko think he was, addressing him like that! Kazin controlled any reaction. Wrong to focus upon the wrong person. Malik was the target: always had been. Why, agonized Kazin, had he done what he did that October day in Stalingrad! Why hadn’t he let the bastard bleed to death! He’d thought Olga was sure by then, as sure as he had been of her. Kazin supposed he’d done it to prove just how much he loved her. Poor Olga: poor darling, confused, uncertain Olga. Sidestepping both his recollections and Panchenko’s petulant anger, Kazin said: ‘We’ve moved ahead.’

  ‘And he appeared surprised, too,’ continued Panchenko. ‘Almost like he regarded it as some sort of joke. I couldn’t understand until later. Then I remembered his slow reaction in the bedroom. And the pills. He’d already taken his tranquillizers …’ Panchenko sniggered to himself and Kazin looked curiously across the car at the man. Panchenko went on: ‘It must have been the tranquillizers. They were what made everything that much easier.’