by Mark Blair
‘Bringing back show trials, General?’
‘I am hoping that will be entirely unnecessary. Indeed it is my fervent wish that you return to the comforts of your luxurious apartment… at the earliest opportunity.’
‘I have to say I’m confused, General. There I was thinking you were preparing for World War Three. I’m touched by your concern.’
‘Marov, I don’t doubt your military talents,’ replied Volkov, clearly annoyed. ‘Despite our past differences. The Soviet Union needs them right now.’
‘Which Soviet Union is the question… yours or the general secretary’s?’
Volkov extracted an envelope from his pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to him. Yuri glanced at it. Headed Declaration of the Emergency Committee, it was signed by the deputy secretary, defence minister, chairman of the KGB, Volkov and three others.
‘A declaration of martial law?’
‘I’d like your signature on this, General.’
‘Dignify your coup… I think not.’
Volkov looked irritated. Yuri could see him struggling to control his emotions.
‘Marov, in case you have failed to understand the crisis we are in, the Soviet Empire is on the brink of collapse. That would be a catastrophe of unparalleled proportions. East Germany will follow Poland and so will the rest. NATO will be on our doorstep, as will be their missile shield… that can’t be allowed to happen.’
‘The general secretary does not agree with you. He is not prepared to see Soviet troops bloodily repress Eastern Europe – not anymore.’
‘And the Americans… you are not concerned about them on our doorstep?’
Yuri shrugged. ‘General, we have to let go. We couldn’t hold Afghanistan, and if Eastern Europe rises against us, it will not be any different. We should learn from the British. They were smart, they had their last-ditch efforts too, but they knew when their time was up and withdrew gracefully.’
Volkov looked at him with undisguised disgust. He stood up and rapped on the door.
‘I’ll give you a little time to think about it… to reconsider your position… but not too long… or a headache might just be the least of your difficulties.’
Chapter 56
Leningrad
Misha blinked his eyes open. What was that noise, that flickering? His mouth was as parched as sandpaper. He looked about him, trying to focus. Everything seemed to be swimming around him. He closed his eyes, counted to ten and tried again. His eyes lighted on a plastic bottle mounted on a stand to the side of his bed. A tube with coffee-coloured liquid snaked its way into his nose and down the back of his throat. Another bag of clear fluid supplied a catheter to his arm. In the corner of the room a woman in a nurse’s uniform sat watching TV, the volume barely audible. Sleep was dragging him down again, like a heavy irresistible weight. He refocussed on the screen; a group of men sitting at a table faced the camera. Who was the man in the centre? He was sure he recognised him. The deputy secretary general, Gerasim Gerashchenko, that was it. He shut his eyes and started to gently drift.
The sound of the TV being turned up hauled him back. His eyes darted along the line of grim-looking men. The third one from the middle wore a military uniform; next to him was a man in thick glasses. Where had he seen him before? He closed his eyes and began to float off.
He was running, sprinting full tilt down a wet street, grasping something tightly in his hand. Someone was chasing him, maybe more than one. He was looking for someone ahead but he couldn’t remember who or why. He had to give her whatever it was in his hand. Yes, he knew it was a ‘her’ now, but he hadn’t much time. In fact, no time at all.
His arm was freezing cold; a hand reached out and touched him. Startled, he opened his eyes. A nurse stood over him, syringing a crystal-clear liquid into the catheter. He looked back at the TV. He was sure it was important. He knew where he had seen him now. The nurse smiled down at him.
‘You are awake,’ she said in an unsurprised voice, as though he had woken from an afternoon nap and it was entirely expected.
He tried to say something but his tongue felt as though it was glued to the top of his mouth. The nurse reached for a glass of water, told him to sip and held it gently to his mouth. Misha grabbed her arm as a drowning man might a piece of flotsam. Sleep was pulling him under again. He had to get the words out. She bent an ear to his mouth, the words ‘Safe… Vika… Yuri’ escaped. Misha, exhausted, surrendered to the beckoning deep.
Chapter 57
Viktoriya stared at the heart monitor and watched it describe a regular green ark across a black screen.
‘How long did he wake for?’
‘Only a few minutes. Going back to sleep like this is normal. It’s the body’s way of coping. He’ll be in and out.’
The nurse gently tugged off the tape with tweezers and re-dressed the livid head wound.
‘How did he seem, mentally?’
‘Confused, but that is to be expected. He looked at me and his eyes focussed.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘It was very indistinct… a few words. The doctor will give you a more professional prognosis… but this is all good news.’
Viktoriya looked at the TV set that had been pumping out propaganda all day long. The secretary general was still supposedly ill and unavailable for interview in his Moscow dacha. She wondered how many people were taken in by the new so-called Emergency Committee.
‘Please try to remember what he said – it might be important.’
The nurse shrugged. ‘As I said, it was difficult to hear, hardly a whisper… maybe your short name, Vika, safe… Dimitri…’
‘Grigory?’
‘No, not Grigory…’
‘Vika, safe, Dimitri?’
‘Yes, I think that was it.’ She could see the nurse trying to remember, unsure she had repeated what he had said correctly.
Viktoriya told the nurse to contact her the moment Misha showed any sign of waking again and went back to her office.
‘Alina, please can you find Ivan and Grigory for me.’
She stood by the long window she so often stood at, talking with Misha, and looked down into the yard. Two heavy machine guns, mounted on tripods, pointed at the gate. Around the internal balconies, men in thick winter gear, sporting Kalashnikovs, covered the machine gunners.
A cough behind her made her turn around.
Grigory stood next to Ivan in the doorway.
‘We were in the vault,’ said Ivan.
She waved them in and told them what had happened.
‘That’s great, wonderful,’ said Ivan, and she could see him struggling with his emotions; he’d been an absolute rock since the attack. ‘He’ll be back in no time.’ Grigory placed a supportive hand on his friend’s back.
‘Any news on the oil shipments?’ said Grigory.
‘I spoke to Maxim this morning. There is nothing he can do either. I’m going to have to go to Moscow and see Federov, try and straighten this out. When do reinforcements arrive from Roslavi?’
‘Tonight, fifty men,’ said Ivan.
There was a pause while they waited for her to say something.
‘I’ve been thinking Kostya is not going to let this sit, whatever his motive might be. Knowing him as we both do,’ and she looked at Ivan, ‘he’ll already have some alternative plan underway and he is unlikely to take prisoners… maybe you, Grigory.’ She smiled. ‘Where is he now?’
‘At the airport,’ answered Ivan. Vladek had been tracking him all day.
‘Well, tell me when he is back in his office.’
‘Why do you think Konstantin wants Misha dead,’ asked Grigory, ‘… why now?’
Viktoriya had been asking herself the same question. Kostya did things for a reason: to secure his power base, further his business interests and punish transgres
sors. He did not perform random acts of violence or revenge. He was far too intelligent for that.
‘What if it’s all connected,’ said Viktoriya. ‘Yuri’s arrest warrant and disappearance, the general secretary’s illness, the Emergency Committee, Kostya’s attack and the military stopping our tankers. Maybe Kostya is not the initiating factor, but somebody higher up the chain.’
‘But then who?’ said Ivan. ‘Why would Misha present a threat?’
Viktoriya sat back down in the chair and closed her eyes. Why? Why? An image of Misha showing her the vault and the mysterious small safe swam into consciousness. What was so important that only the two of them had the code… although hadn’t he walked off before properly telling her. Safe… Vika, safe, Dimitri…? Maybe it wasn’t Dimitri, it was Yuri. She jumped to her feet. Maybe that was what Misha was trying to tell her.
With Ivan and Grigory in close pursuit, Viktoriya virtually flew down the stairs to the basement. Two armed guards stepped back from the vault door.
‘Open it,’ ordered Viktoriya.
Wordlessly, Ivan ad Grigory punched in the dual access codes. Whirring and a loud clunk signalled success. Ivan rotated the large wheel lock and heaved open the door.
‘I may be wrong but there is something important in here,’ she said, facing the small wall safe – perhaps something worth killing for, she thought.
‘Do you have the code number?’ asked Grigory.
Viktoriya shook her head. ‘Misha said I would know it. I suppose he didn’t want to burden me… If questioned I genuinely wouldn’t. Except I do… somehow. Just give me some space. I need to think.’
The two of them withdrew to the vault’s entrance as she stared at the ten-digit keypad. It had to be a number they both knew, something special. She punched in his birthday, her birthday, long and short year date… that would be too obvious… her mother’s, his mother’s… nothing… Ivan’s… Kostya’s. There was a click and the door sprang a millimetre ajar. Misha’s little joke, she thought, and smiled.
She waved over Ivan and Grigory and reached into the safe. Inside was a large sealed envelope. She picked it up and weighed it in her hands. Both of them looked at her expectantly. She shrugged. She had no idea what it could be. Grigory walked to the counting table and passed her a letter opener. She slid it carefully under the sealed edge and upended the envelope. Six large black-and-white photographs slid out onto the table. She picked one up and studied it. Two men stood on the embankment on that wet morning twelve years ago… how could she forget that day? She had kept the roll of film hidden for all those years… until Misha’s first visit to Milan. She went back to the safe and felt for the negatives… nothing.
‘Misha took these years ago, when we were teenagers, for some cloak and dagger guy who never reappeared… Do you recognise either of the two men in the photos?’
They stood staring down at the photographs she had neatly rearranged on the table.
‘The man with the glasses looks sort of familiar, but this is years ago, people change,’ said Grigory.
‘Who?’
‘The guy in the Politburo line-up they’ve been beaming non-stop today. I have no idea who is.’
That would make sense. Maybe Misha had witnessed something when he woke, recognised one of the men in the photo. But what was so important about these two men, these photos?
Alina materialised in the doorway.
‘Vika, there’s a man upstairs, says he needs to see you urgently. He has a message from Yuri.’
Chapter 58
Viktoriya threw clothes into an overnight bag, opening and closing drawers seemingly at random. When she had what she wanted, she carried the bag out into the living room and handed it to Rodion before returning to her bedroom and stripping off and passing her clothes to Alina, who had already taken off Vladek’s coat and balaclava. Sliding back the wardrobe door, she pulled out a red G-string from the underwear drawer and flicked through the rail until she found the matching red corset. She held it up to the mirror. It would do fine. She stepped into the G-string and stood still for Alina as she buttoned the corset up from the back. She looked at herself again in the mirror.
‘I need a belt,’ she said, almost to herself. She rummaged through a chest of drawers and pulled out a narrow red patent leather belt and buckled it tight.
Viktoriya stepped into the bathroom and unzipped her make-up kit. It took a few seconds to find the foundation she was looking for – one a good shade darker than her everyday one. Pinning back her hair, she shook the small glass bottle before dabbing on its light creamy liquid with her finger and smoothing it with a brush. She used a dark blusher to accentuate her strong cheekbones and a bronze mascara for her eyebrows and lashes. She stepped back and looked at herself in the mirror before applying a dark smokey eye shadow and a contrasting bright red lipstick. Perfect. Finally, she combed her hair along a different parting.
‘What do you think?’ Viktoriya asked Alina as she slipped her feet into a pair of red stilettos.
‘I hardly recognise you,’ she said, helping her on with a short black satin wrap. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
Viktoriya nodded. She looked out of the window to the wide pavement below. Four cars lay tucked in against the kerb, ready to take her back to Morskaya. A block down, another car – she could only assume it was one of Kostya’s, keeping a lookout. Her small motorcade had surprised them, when the gate on Morskaya had been flung open for the first time since Misha’s dramatic return. Men had rushed about in confusion. She had recognised several as Kostya’s. Ivan, in the lead car, had given them just enough time to see that Misha was not with them.
Viktoriya turned back to Alina.
‘Has Vladimir arrived?’
Alina nodded. ‘He’s in the living room.’
Vladimir had come separately by foot, hopefully unnoticed by Kostya’s men.
Viktoriya donned her long overcoat, walked into the living room, picked up the phone and dialled her mother. She imagined the ringtone echoing in the communal hallway and prayed her mother was in. Come on, someone, pick up the phone.
‘Hello,’ said a familiar voice. It was her mother’s neighbour.
‘Elsa, how are you? Is my mother there?’
Viktoriya heard footsteps and banging on a door and then her mother’s voice. She hoped whoever was bugging her phone was listening.
‘Mother,’ Viktoriya said when she answered the phone, ‘I can’t talk long.’
‘Where are you? I’ve been worried about you? This new government, will that affect you?’ She rushed out her questions without taking breath.
‘Everything will be fine, Mother. I’m not staying at the apartment at the moment. Misha is not well.’ She did not wish to elaborate and send her mother into panic. ‘I am staying over with him at Morskaya for a night or two; I’m just headed back there now. I’ll call you in the next day or so… and, mother, you must come and live in Leningrad.’
When she put down the phone she found herself staring at the floor trying to get a hold on her emotions. So much had happened. Hearing her mother’s voice had brought her close to tears, unsettled her. Half of her even doubted she might see her again. Would anything ever be the same now? At that instant she would have given almost anything for her mother’s warm reassuring hug.
When she looked up, three pairs of eyes met hers across the room.
Viktoriya forced a smile, picked up the hat she had arrived wearing from the sofa and plumped it down on Alina’s head, putting a finger to her lips as a reminder.
‘Right, I think I’m ready to go back now, Rodion.’ She locked the apartment door behind her, took the overnight bag off Rodion, and watched him and her new double and Vladimir take the lift to the car. Three in three out; she hoped they were counting.
Five minutes later, Viktoriya caught the elevator to the first floor and walked the
last flight to the basement and service exit at the rear of the building. The cold wind hit her as she walked up past bins and rubbish piled high to the main prospect. Cars sped by. A taxi hove into view. She stepped forward and flagged it down.
‘The corner of Liteyny and Kirochnaya.’
Viktoriya threw her bag into the back seat and slid in beside it. Ten minutes, she thought, and there would be no turning back. She reached into her bag and found the handle of the Markov and ran her finger along the silencer.
Snow had begun to fall lightly again. Staring out the window at passers-by, Viktoriya felt detached from the real world, out of synch with the everyday. The taxi stopped. She paid him and climbed out onto a virtually empty street. Two blocks up, she saw the entrance to Pravdy. Two armed men stood outside. One of them stepped out of the pool of light by the door and walked over to a car parked in front. There was loud laughter. He banged on the car roof and ambled back to his post. Viktoriya shivered.
Cutting around to a side street, she hiked two streets over before winding her way back to a narrow passageway that ran at the back of the club. She paused at its entrance. A door opened. Light flooded momentarily onto the street before evaporating. A girl in jeans and a heavy parka jacket with an overlarge fur collar trudged past her. Viktoriya flipped up her hood, slung her bag over her shoulder, walked up to the door and knocked. The door opened. A guard she did not recognise looked down at her with disinterest.
‘I’m new,’ she said, before he had a chance to say anything. ‘I know where the dressing room is, Anna showed me yesterday.’ Maybe it was because she had named one of the dancers that swayed him, her confidence or his complacency, but he nodded her through. The corridor was as she remembered: a black tunnel, low ceilinged, one person wide, lit only by small, dim sodium overhead lights that gave off an eerie orange glow. A girl approached from the other direction, on her way out; they both turned slightly and, without pausing, squeezed by each other.
Just before the dressing room and the stairs to the basement and Kostya’s office, Viktoriya stopped outside the women’s toilet, a cramped single cubicle. Thankfully, it was empty. She stepped inside and locked the door. Extracting the automatic from her bag, she stashed it firmly under her belt in the small of her back. Twice she drew and replaced it, making sure it didn’t catch. Satisfied, she stuffed her coat in the duffel bag and crammed it into the small fitted cupboard under the sink.