by John Meaney
It was midwinter three years ago that I waited in the queue at the cemetery, wearing the uniform of a Red Army captain, with appropriate credentials in case anyone checked. I paid my respects in the diary shrine and accepted the half-fumbled pass from my local contact, who shuffled away without looking at me. I put the microfilm into my pocket, and after watching the solemn military parade and throwing my own heartfelt salute, then returned to the bus, and back to my hotel by the frozen River Neva. On the opposite bank, despite subzero temperatures, four pale-bodied men clad only in trunks were diving off ice floes into steel-grey waves, for a dose of bracing, Soviet-style fun.
A courier was due to meet me in the hotel bar to receive the microfilm, while I was to remain in Leningrad for a further two weeks. My briefing (from Schröder, when he was still Goldmann's deputy, before Goldmann retired) had specified that the courier would be someone recognizable. He hadn't mentioned the man's name, and I hadn't asked.
Except it was no man waiting for me in the bar – it was Fern, and she looked as surprised as me when we saw each other.
Sitting on the bed now, I extracted the separate sheets of biographical detail, and spread them beside me. I picked up the first page, then put it down.
Fern. For God's sake, Fern.
She couldn't be the reason that Ignatieff knew my true name. But if Berlin had given my name to Ignatieff, wouldn't Pinchas have warned me?
Fern's no traitor.
But she spent those formative years among Communist partisans, remember? There was a mole somewhere in Branch 7, because it wasn't Ignatieff who'd blown Moshe's rendezvous in Hamburg or Lenin Beard in Katowice. It was someone with access to Branch 7 mission files, or at least the travel plans.
No. Impossible.
Naturally Fern's Russian is fluent. On that day three years ago, when she stumbled in her greeting, it wasn't with the clumsiness of a foreigner mangling the language. What she sounded like was a woman startled to see someone she'd been trying to forget.
"I didn't realize it would be you... Captain."
We were in the bar, and her using my fictitious rank was a nice touch, as if she were trying to establish a formality after earlier intimacy. Did she ache as I had? I hadn't seen her since Iraq, the previous summer, so our public act wasn't far from the truth: we had been intimate, and afterwards I'd even set up a post office box in Berlin – Fern's suggestion – and we'd exchanged letters a few times. Hers had come from Canada and the US. The last had been over two months ago, brief and almost impersonal.
"And fancy seeing you here."
There were a few sidelong glances from other patrons in the bar, but no one was paying particular attention. Drama, including mortal tragedy, is so often private, played out before a world that fails to notice. Someone dies, their family mourns, and the rest of us know nothing of it. We don't want to know, because someday it will be our turn and we don't like the reminder.
"Shall we" – Fern glanced around the bar – "go to your room? And I could bring some drinks?"
Russian women are trained to look after their men, their families, and you could call this a flawless performance.
"I have vodka." As though it was obvious I would.
For some officers that would be a given. Then there were enlisted men stationed so far in the icy wilderness of the tundra that they could get hold of no alcohol at all, save for the antifreeze they drained from their tanks and did their best to purify, drinking the only poison that could hold back the never-ending winter darkness.
There was no one else in the lift as Fern and I rode up together. Half-way up, as we stared at each other, all restraint collapsed and I pulled her into me, or she pulled me, and I clutched her perfect buttocks as we kissed hard and deep. I slid my fingers up her back, then touched one breast as she reached between my legs and took a firm grip.
My God...
We broke from each other as the lift slowed, jerked once, and stopped. Fern gave a shaky laugh as the doors opened. I could scarcely breathe. We stumbled to my room went inside, kicking the door shut behind us. Then I pushed her against the wall, pulling at her clothes as she pulled mine, buttons popping her blouse was open, her bra pushed up revealing a perfectly remembered breast, her cherry nipple prominent in greeting as I took it into my mouth. My fingers slid up inside her panties and she was incandescent with lust.
We fell onto the bed and then I was inside her, riding to crescendo, and our eyes locked and widened as the nova hit both of us simultaneously, and I cried out and laughed and Fern gave a kind of sob and we were miraculously done. For a long time we lay locked together quietly. Then we kissed slowly, taking our time, and made love once more.
The first file, as I opened it now, was stamped with the GRU crest. It looked genuine, but then if Ignatieff had produced fakes, he'd know how to make them look compelling. There was bibliography, most detailed in the section that logged the man's training performance as he worked through the curriculum of the Clandestine Operations School.
The agent's name was Allen, J., and his nationality was noted as British.
Crap.
Ignatieff had told me I needed to read the dossier, and this was part of what he'd meant. I turned the pages through to Banacek, K., the one who'd been inside the van that Moshe blew up. Despite the Slavic name, Banacek had been raised in Amsterdam. All the files contained a similar feature.
The GRU assassins were Westerners, every last one of them.
Bad news.
That time in Leningrad, the next morning, after an endless night – we'd made love many times, then slept tightly curled around each other, as if our skins had blended into one – that was when Fern told me that she was engaged. Her skirt was on and she paused in buttoning her blouse.
"I'm marrying Jean-Paul. In the spring."
"No. You can't."
Fern shook her head, then continued doing up her buttons.
"You do mean Jean-Paul Segal?" I was trying to make sense of this. "In Quebec Station?"
"He's being transferred to Paris. It's a step up. He'll be station chief."
"Well for fuck's sake, how nice for him. A little career progression, is that it? It'll be a feather in your cap to marry the head of—"
"David, stop."
I blew out a breath. My eyes were stinging as I turned away, blinking hard. Then she had the door open and was rushing out into the corridor, jacket in hand, blouse still undone. The door slammed back into place.
"Balls. Shit..."
There was no point in running after her, and in fact it was dangerous. This was Leningrad, a hostile environment, and while it might be possible to conduct a genuine public argument without breaking cover, it would more likely be suicidal, hardly an act of love.
She's getting married.
And not to just anyone: to Jean-Paul, who'd saved my life both directly and indirectly, through his teaching. His offensive-driving techniques had come to the fore during a chase beneath a blazing Madrid sun, and I'd sideswiped the maniac who'd been trying to run me off the road and given him a taste of his own poison.
I owed Jean-Paul so much. But not...
Not Fern.
The vodka bottle was by my hand, opened, and I drank from the neck, crying and wincing as it burned. And then what remains is a blur in my mind, until the moment I swung the edge of my fist against the mirror, roaring as the glass splintered.
I scarcely noticed the blood on my hand, but I half-focus on the three empty vodka bottles in the room. Outside, the world was lighter than I'd expect. Had I drunk through the night, and rung someone to fetch the other two bottles? There was officially no room service, but since I was a captain in the—
A knock sounded.
"Is everything all right?"
I pulled the door open. "No it's fucking not."
"Comrade, you were making a noise and—"
"A noise?"
And that was when I slammed forward and decked him. What I remember is the warm pleasure of his nose
busting, flattening against the palm of my hand, the hotness of spurting blood.
Later I apologized, and it was only my putative military rank that prevented the duty manager from calling the police. That, and the lie I spun, about one of my comrades dying while on manoeuvres. A katsa might be a professional liar, but I felt guilty for the falsehood. They even offered me another drink, but I turned it down, and I've not touched alcohol since. Partly it's because I have psych techniques to change recurring patterns of behaviour, thanks to Manny, so I might as well use them. But that's not the full story.
Some people can't afford to lose control, simple as that.
That was three years ago, so perhaps it was time to give it a rest. Fern was with Jean-Paul in Paris, and this was the Soviet Union where I really ought to concentrate.
It seemed that the British man, Allen, had flourished under GRU training. From his marksmanship scores, if he entered next year's Olympics, he'd be in with a chance for a medal. Explosives handling, likewise excellent. A degree in chemistry from Bristol.
"Bozhe moi." If any eavesdroppers were listening, at least they'd hear me cursing in Russian.
Crossman, C., read the second dossier. Nationality: US Citizen.
His sniper scores were even higher than Allen's. Scanning ahead, I found another American, Oswald, L.H., along with two citizens of New Jerusalem: Silverstein, J.A. and Zadok, E. They all knew how to shoot, and most of them excelled at it.
Beside me on the bed lay the discarded Pravda.
PREMIER KRUSCHEV TO RECEIVE PRESIDENT EINSTEIN.
Nothing was under my control. The realization brought a kind of sick dizziness.
If I were a Nazi and learned about a terminated assassin programme run by the GRU, what would I do? The graduates were killing machines, to put it simplistically, primed to go off in a certain direction, giving their latent madness a chance to blossom. They would be eager for a new employer, someone who could give them what they needed, which was basically blood. But they would also be paranoid as hell.
Of course.
So what I would do is make use of their fears, tell them that the GRU weren't just terminating the programme, they were going to terminate the product, and it might not even be a lie. Trained assassins off the leash were dangerous to everyone, including their original handlers. (That was the way to turn them. In fact, if one of us in Branch 7 had known of this in time, we might have tried to do the same thing, though I doubted it.) In return for signing up with Black Path, they would receive anonymity, protection, and the chance to exercise their talents, to do the thing they did best.
PREMIER KRUSCHEV TO RECEIVE PRESIDENT EINSTEIN.
A forthcoming state visit, and a bunch of rogue assets, some of whom might still be on Soviet soil. Of course, the newspaper given to me by Ignatieff might have been a coincidence, but come on. Twisty game plans were his specialty. If he had known more about our people, he might have requested Moshe Boaz by name, because this was shaping up into Moshe's kind of mission.
President Einstein's in danger.
And what exactly did Ignatieff expect me to do about it, here in the heart of Mother bloody Russia?
THIRTEEN:
MOSCOW, December 1962
The dying sun brought a glow to the red brick Kremlin walls, draping liquid fire across the gold-plated cupolas that rose inside the complex. Call it a miracle: bright colours gilding a monochrome city. From the nearest gate, an honour squad of grey-clad soldiers goose-stepped into Red Square.
We secular pilgrims held our breath. As Alexandr Fyodorovitch I was thrilled at the soldiers' controlled power and grace. The men were tall and broad-shouldered: up close, their goose-step broadcast tremendous strength. The soldiers held their heavy rifles one-handed, arm like a steel angle-bracket, oblivious to the weight.
A good Soviet citizen might have joined the queue for Lenin's mausoleum, but it was long, stretching across the square. Ignatieff expected me to be at the ballet. Would he be there too, or was something else going on?
Put it this way: how many Western spooks have had a rendezvous inside the Kremlin?
The changing of the guard was complete. The squad going off duty performed their own goose-step, back through the gateway in the Kremlin wall. Some distance inside, they reverted to an ordinary marching gait.
I queued up to show my ticket and ID. Kremlin means palace, and there is a whole collection of palaces inside the fortified walls. The Palace of Congresses is the Soviet version of a congress or parliament; but when the Politburo go home, the Palace becomes a theatre. Politics and performance. The Soviets aren't known for their irony. Perhaps it's just that the rest of us don't get it.
Along with other ordinary people from the great Communist proletariat, I entered the Kremlin compound. Most were in couples, some in family groups, chattering and examining the various Kremlins whose polished cupolas gleamed. There were heroic statues, and a famous bell lying on its side. Then we were inside the Palace of Congresses.
I shucked off my coat and handed it in, just like everybody else. Say what you like about the Commies, they can heat their public buildings.
Then my skin crawled.
Soldiers.
They were coming this way along the plush corridor: best uniforms with maroon berets, horizontal blue-and-white stripes at the throat of their olive-green jackets. Maybe twelve of them, and my heart began to hammer, sickness spreading inside...
Don't run.
... until I realized they were laughing, joking with each other. They were eighteen-year-old paratroopers on a night out. Where else would they go apart from the ballet? I stood back as they passed me.
And this country's the enemy?
Entering the auditorium, I looked for my seat.
Soft scarlet upholstery made the squarish seats comfortable. I settled back, scanning the rest of the audience, catching no sight of Ignatieff. The seats around me were filling up. Soon the lights dimmed, a single spotlight focused on the stage curtains, and the orchestra launched into Tchaikovski's opening refrain, and I tried not to laugh, because for me the Swan Lake overture means Dracula, with Bela Lugosi staring from the shadows.
Finally the ballet began and I was riveted... for minutes. The ballerinas' lithe fluidity came from impressive control and suppleness. Excellent athletes. But then my eyelids began to droop. As an artistic experience, this did nothing for me, and it was so very warm in—
Inside the bloody Kremlin!
I snapped awake. Around me sat two thousand comrades who would turn on me in an instant, given just a hint of my identity.
That kept me alert until the intermission.
Still no sign of Ignatieff.
"Sorry, comrade." Someone trying not to trod on my toes.
"That's all right."
But there was a man standing up two rows ahead, and his face was half familiar. Something about the droop of the heavy moustache. Among the crowd filing their way up the aisle towards the bar – or whatever they had for refreshments – he walked with a slight stoop, bowing his heavy, muscular shoulders. Who the hell was he? After he had passed my seat, I rose and began to follow, moving through the soft-spoken crowd.
Wonderful.
The dossiers were inside my shirt, since leaving them in my hotel room was out of the question. If I could get to the toilets and a cubicle, I could extract the papers and flick through them – but that was unnecessary, because the heavyset man was familiar. I'd seen his photograph only last night.
Zadok, E. And I remembered another detail. Nationality: Citizen of New Jerusalem.
One of our own. The technical term is traitor.
I followed, tracking him to a counter where he bought ice cream. When the soft bell chimed ten minutes later, I followed him back into the auditorium and took my seat at the same time he did.
This time, as the lights fell dim, I was wide awake.
The final applause was like thunder. Dancers took their bows; schoolgirls carried bouquets onstage. Zadok
held his hands high, clapping hard.
Psychopaths can be sentimental men.
If he is Zadok.
I knew what I'd seen in the dossier. This man's face matched one of the photographs, and the name was Zadok. But the source of my information was a KGB colonel.
Does he expect me to kill Zadok?
The dossier had emphasised explosives and combat capabilities, particularly rifle marksmanship. But there was something else.
"Your national sports," I'd said to Ignatieff, "are chess and ballet."
Was I a piece on a board, and Colonel Arkady Ignatieff a grandmaster playing a farsighted game? He couldn't have fabricated President Einstein's forthcoming visit, but he might have known of it well in advance.
Taking my place in the slow-moving crush, I tried to keep Zadok in sight. We inched toward the exit. Some five minutes later I was outside, ahead of Zadok, pausing as if to take in the breathtaking effect of St Basil's Cathedral: night-time spotlights trained on candy-striped cupolas. In seconds, a bulky figure strode past, his fur hat huge.
Zadok headed for the Metro station. There we descended into a true palace: cream walls, bronze statues in niches, crystal chandeliers. Commuters take miraculous care of Metro stations, keeping them spotless, like galleries in the Louvre or perhaps the Vatican. Perhaps someday in the future, every worker's home will look just as palatial, when the Soviet paradise is brought to pass, but don't hold your breath.
We boarded a train heading southwest. At Park Kultury, sometimes called Gorky Park, we alighted. Here in the corridors, coffee-brown swirled through the marble, wall panels shone white, and again the chandeliers were flawless. Zadok changed platforms to the Circular Line.
Seven minutes later a train arrived, and we climbed in. There were fewer passengers now. If the crowds thinned out any more, it would be hard to follow unnoticed. But Zadok got off at Dobrininskaya, a yellow neo-Renaissance splendour with mosaic walls, and I followed him up to street level. Then we were out into the open, where the night was cold.