'Thank you for coming.'
'Thank me for nothing.'
Rudakov came close. He showed no fear.
'Do you like what you see, Captain Rudakov?'
'You have expelled our Commandant from his compound. You have brought down our helicopters. You have destroyed our tank. Are you tired now of victories, Michael Holly? Are you ready now for defeat?'
'Just words, Captain Rudakov, and words are meaning-less now.'
it was you that asked to talk.'
Holly looked into Rudakov's face, into the eyes that were now shorn of ambition, pride.
'The men want to fight on.'
'Then they are doomed.'
'I will not lead them to surrender.'
'Then they die.'
'There will be a massacre.'
'Not of our choice.'
if I were not with them . .. ?'
'You are a part of them.'
if I were not with them, they would come out.'
'I cannot save you, Michael Holly.'
'Have I asked to be saved?'
'What I tried to do for you, Holly, in a civilized and humane way, is finished. You played the idiot here, Holly.
You had a choice. You could respond to my help, you could ally yourself with that shit in the Kitchen. You made your choice. There is a telex on my desk, Michael Holly. It talks of your transfer. You will go to Vladimir, or perhaps to Chistopol. You will never find another like me. You spat on me, you crapped on me. Perhaps they will shoot you now, perhaps they will lock you away forever. It is not my concern. My concern for you is over. I was reasonable with you, Michael Holly. How did you respond? You threw coffee at me. You chose the scum that are now in the Kitchen. I tell you I would not have that scum clean out my lavatory. You made your choice. I have no need to stand here and listen to you.'
'Captain Rudakov . . . I want the man that was sent to Yavas brought back here,' Holly said.
A sad, bitter smile spread across Rudakov's face. 'He is to be tried tomorrow. He will be sentenced tomorrow. In such a case the sentence of the court would be carried out within a week.'
'I want him back here with us. I want him back before morning.'
'You face the charge of murder of a guard. You face the charge of incitement and leadership of armed mutiny. You have the nerve to talk to me as if I were some bastard negotiator.'
'Did they tell you of Kengir when they put the camp uniform on you . .. ?'
'I don't have to listen to you.'
'Did they tell you of Kengir?'
'They told us of Kengir.'
'Listen hard to me, Captain Rudakov. There was not one tank at Kengir, there were a dozen. The tanks came into the compound after forty days, the zeks had no weapons, they lay down in front of the tracks. Did they tell you that? They died rather than surrender.'
'Kengir is history.'
it will be the same at Barashevo, Captain Rudakov.'
Rudakov caught at Holly's arm. 'You think I am in charge outside the gate? After four helicopters, after one tank, do you think the Political Officer is still in charge?'
it will be a massacre, Captain Rudakov. Cruel. Horrible.
Bloody. The camp of which Captain Yuri Rudakov was Political Officer will become a legend of death. You will be broken, Captain Rudakov, destroyed . . . '
'That's shit. . .' Rudakov shouted.
'That's true.'
'I believe you.' Rudakov's voice fell, a dropped stone.
'You ask me to bring this man from Yavas back to the camp
. . . what do you give me in return?'
Holly closed his eyes, squeezed them tight. The searchlight beam hammered onto his face.
'I give you the end of this.'
'There will be reprisals, there will be executions, that is the way of these things.'
if you have the leader . . . ?'
'You ask me if the leader balances the scales. The camp is destroyed.'
'You have the leader, you have the end to this.'
'You would have faith in me, Michael?'
'As you would have faith in me, Yuri.'
'There is one way only that the leader balances the scales.'
'One way.'
'I will bring the man from Yavas.'
'When he has reached the Kitchen, I will come to this place.'
Rudakov's hand snaked out. He held Holly's two hands in his. 'I will go to Yavas.'
'Goodbye, Yuri.'
'They are not worthy of you, that scum,' said Rudakov quietly.
i know who is worth friendship, I know seven hundred who are my friends. Let me know you, too, as a friend.'
'I will do it myself.'
'Goodbye.'
Holly turned to walk back to the Kitchen. Behind him, fading, was the brisk step of Rudakov across the snow.
Images cascaded in his mind.
There was a couple who grew old in a small house in a narrow street in a country that could never be their own.
There was a factory in London where the work-force in their overalls would have lost the habit of wondering aloud whatever happened to the tall one who went to Moscow.
There was a pub behind the Elephant and Castle where the bar space would be cramped with men taking a beer and a sandwich before the train journey home, where two stools at a window table would be taken by an executive and his secretary, and neither would know of a promise that was given.
There was a man who worked high in Century House, with a view of the evening river, who would have a new set of files on his desk and a new set of clients at the end of his telephone.
There was a diplomat snug now in his Moscow flat who would tell a prisoner to live within the system, not to kick it, not to fight it.
There was a girl standing on a train, tired from eight hours at a Building Society's typewriter, a lovely girl who had been misused.
Such were the images in the mind of Michael Holly.
None of them relevant. Everything important was holed up in the stench of death and pain in the Kitchen hall. Where else would you find such men, Holly? Where else but in the Kitchen hall of ZhKh 385/3/1. All the filth, all the trash. All the friends of Michael Holly. They would never be forgotten.
For a moment Holly paused at the doorway of the Store.
One dead, two alive. He saw the gleam of the cartridge cases set neatly in their belt.
'You won't need the gun any more . . . Trust me.'
The Colonel General waited at the gates for Rudakov.
'They are coming out?'
'I want one hour.'
'Why?'
'You can mortar the compound, you can flatten what little is left of it, you can kill all of them. Give me an hour, please . . .'
'What did he say?'
'Colonel General, I want an hour, an hour of cease-fire.
You will see then what he said.'
'I can order you to tell me.'
'I ask you not to order me. I ask for an hour.'
The Colonel General looked down at the snow slush by his boots. 'You, too, he has trapped you, too. He is a persuasive man. You have your hour. One hour only, then the mortars, then I go in with the infantry.'
'Thank you.'
Kypov sat alone in his office with the telephone pressed hard against his ear.
'. . . I can only repeat what I have already told you, the position has stabilized, the perimeter is secure . . . I won't accept that . . . I don't give a shit what it looks like from Moscow. . . Yes, yes, 111 tell the Procurator, I'll tell him just that. First thing in the morning he can hear it, that I don't give a shit what it looks like from Moscow . .. Yes, yes, it will be finished by the time that he gets here... Don't talk to me about casualties. Any time you want me to hand over command, it's your decision. I understand your feelings. I would remind you that for two and a half years under my command the camp was a model of efficiency and discipline.
It's only been in the last month . . .'
He slammed down the telephone.
The bastard hadn't even heard him out. Just the screech of a dead line in his ear.
He looked around his new office. He would be able to pack everything that was personal to himself inside one small briefcase. The rest would belong to his successor.
'My uniform is your authorization.' Rudakov beat his fist into the palm of his hand. He glared across the small room at the Governor of the Central Investigation Prison. 'I don't give a shit for your procedures. I've come for that prisoner, I'll take him out of here if I have to fucking manhandle him past every goon in this bastard place.'
'Your language is offensive.'
'Your behaviour is obstructive. Your behaviour will be dealt with at length in my report.'
'There is no need for threats.'
'Get him here. Now.'
Who wanted to tangle with KGB? The Governor sighed.
He pushed a blank sheet of paper across the table.
i shall require a signed statement from you, Captain Rudakov, that you have taken this man into your personal custody.'
The girl sat with him. He and the girl were alone with each other on the floor, with their backs resting against the wall.
The men had shuffled away, drawn a few feet back so that Holly and Morozova had a small area to themselves. They knew. Because he is told nothing in the days and nights of his camp life, the zek is adept at reading scarce signs. When Holly sat with the girl, with no word of courage for them, then they knew their defeat. As a snake skin is shed, so the zeks let their spirit slip from their backs. A few comforted the injured at the far end of the Kitchen. Mostly they _
squatted on the floor, waiting. Waiting was their trade.
Waiting was their skill. The zeks waited, and they watched Holly and the girl.
His arm was around her, casually on her shoulder, laid without emotion.
'There is no other way?'
'No other way that I know.'
'For these people you do it?'
'They deserve it.'
'Nobody has made them such a gift before.'
'They will stand on the battleground afterwards, and it will be theirs.'
'They have never won before.'
'They deserve their victory.'
if you had known that it would end this way . . . ?'
'Feldstein asked if I would have started.'
'What did you tell him?'
i told him that I would have started.'
'Afterwards . .. what would you have wanted of us?'
'Only that you should be a witness. Only that you should never forget.'
is that all you want of me, that I am here as a witness?'
'That what you have seen you will tell, that you will never forget.'
'What has changed, Holly? Has any small thing changed today?'
'I don't k n o w . . . if there has been a witness, if it is always remembered, then a small thing has changed.'
'I'm cold, H o l l y . . . I'm frightened... you don't have to, Holly
'I have to.'
'Are you afraid?'
it is their only weapon against us, that we are afraid. If we are not afraid they can never defeat us. Once we are frightened we are beaten.'
'To me, Holly, to me alone, can you not show fear?'
'Not to you, not to anyone.'
'Because you have no fear?'
Holly shuddered. His face was turned away from the girl.
The line of his teeth was set hard in the chafed lower lip, and there was a trickle of blood.
'You have no right to ask that of me.'
is there no other place for you, no other place than this camp?'
'When I came here I thought there was; now there is no other place.'
'You have a home in England.'
'I used to have a home, but my home now is the camp.'
in England there are people who love you.'
'Morozova, listen to me . . . I have found a new home, I have found new people to love. There is something that is sweet and wonderful in this place that I have never found before. This place, these people, they are a thing of beauty to me. I glory in this place and these people.'
'Are you afraid, Holly?'
'Be my witness, remember me.'
Her head lay against his chest, and her hair bobbed against his chin with the motion of her crying.
The jeep skidded to a halt as Rudakov stamped on the brake-pedal. It was a curious and confused creature that he had brought from Yavas, a pencil-thin man whose breath was foul. Rudakov had offered no explanation on the journey; the poor bastard was too timorous to ask for one.
They had driven in silence, and at reckless speed. Rudakov reached across., screwed up his nose, and unlocked the man's handcuffs. He jumped out of the jeep, opened the man's door, and pulled him viciously down so that the man staggered on the ice.
A tall, helmeted figure waited beside the gates. The Colonel General studied his watch, held it up to his face so that the thin light would fall on the dial. He nodded, he accepted.
Rudakov propelled his prisoner towards the gates. A soldier dragged them open, wide enough for one man to pass through. Rudakov pointed towards the Kitchen, and pitched the man into the compound.
The gate closed.
Rudakov walked to the Colonel General.
'I want a rifle.'
'Was that your bargain, one for one?'
'One for them all. Holly for all of them that are in the Kitchen.'
'He is a brave man, your Holly.'
'Just give me a rifle.'
The man hesitated in the doorway. He blocked some of the light that filtered from the arc lamps and from the flames into the Kitchen. He stopped as if he needed time to acclimatize himself. He had walked past a downed helicopter and a burnt-out tank, past huts that smouldered. He had come from the condemned cell. He had not understood the charge against him, now he did not understand the scene that greeted his return to the camp. He reached out with his hands in front of him like a blind man in a strange room.
The zeks watched his return, they waited on Holly. From the floor Holly looked at the man in the doorspace. He saw the frail shoulders. He saw the hungry fleshless face. He saw the scabs at the mouth. This was the spear in his side, the nail in his hand.
Holly stood up. He turned his back on the man, he reached down and lifted the girl and for a few moments he held her warm and loving against the mud of his tunic. Once he kissed her forehead, a light and gentle kiss, and she trembled against him.
'I will be your witness, I will never forget,' the girl said.
Feldstein came beside him. 'They can rebuild the huts, but the camp is broken.'
Chernayev was behind him. 'The word will be heard in every camp.'
Poshekhonov faced him. He tried to smile, wiping away the bright rivers from his face with the back of his glove.
'Remember the woman who did handstands; when you are in the compound, remember her . . . '
Holly walked out into the night. He wondered if they crowded the doorway to watch him go.
The fires were lower now, close to exhaustion.
A blackness around him.
God . . . I'm frightened.
What for, Holly? What was it for?
. . . I don't know . . .
Did you think you could beat them, Holly? Did you think you could win all on your own?
I don't know . . . Damn, damn, y e s . . . I know. We won.
We won against their helicopters and their tank and their wire.
Do they know that you won, Holly?
The bastards know. Certainly they know.
The searchlight beam exploded in his face. He was naked in the light. He was captured. They know that we won.
Lying on the roof of the Administration block, Rudakov fired.
One shot.
The noise echoed away, withered on the wind and in the snow. He saw the first of the zeks step out of the doorway of the Kitchen. The searchlight tilted up and away from the single prone
figure, and found the spreading mass of men.
Away to his left the gates were opening, dogs were barking, there was the tramp of marching men.
Yuri Rudakov thought that he should have felt the clean draught of victory. He knew only the stale sweat-scent of despair.
Chapter 25
The first passengers off the Aeroflot dribbled through into the Zurich concourse. Alan Millet rummaged through his mind for the description that Century had given him. He looked at his watch again. He took a step nearer the glass
'Arrivals' door. He was hot, yet he shivered. He felt as a mourner does who arrives too late at the wicket gate of a country churchyard and hears the singing of a distant hymn.
He had opened the file on Michael Holly. He would close that file. That he should seal it, bind it shut, had been an obsession with him since the end of February when the first outline of events in the Dubrovlag had reached Century House. A brief message from a man called Carpenter at Foreign and Commonwealth. 'Your man's dead. They've informed the Embassy that he was shot during a camp riot.
They buried him in the Camp cemetery. We've tried to get a bit more, but they're not giving.. .' A telephone call from a girl in the Soviet section of Amnesty. Nice of her to have remembered him. 'We get this material through from the camps - sometimes we take it as gospel, sometimes we're a bit cautious. The word is that an Englishman was involved in leading a riot at Barashevo, and that he was killed just before the rebellion folded. It's pretty thin, but that's all I have.' A visit to a small house in Hampton Wick and a doorway conversation with an old man whose face was scarred and aged, and behind whom an invisible woman inquired in a frail quaver who the visitor was. 'We know no more than you, Mr Millet. It is your job to find out what happened to our boy. It was you that sent him.'
After Carpenter's call he had swivelled round on his chair and gazed for some time out of the window over the dismal flow of the Thames. After the Amnesty message he had cleared his desk, locked his drawer, gone home. After the visit to Hampton Wick he had paced the streets through the squall showers until mid-evening.
There was a young man next to him now, wearing jeans and an aggressive red shirt under an open lightweight suede jacket. A girl stood beside him, with high, wide cheekbones and a trail of golden hair onto the shoulders of her blouse.
Archangel Page 33