The Man Who Was Saturday

by Derek Lambert

  The Man Who Was Saturday

  DEREK LAMBERT

  (with apologies to the memory of G.K. Chesterton whose man was Thursday)

  COPYRIGHT

  Collins Crime Club

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by Hamish Hamilton Ltd 1985

  Copyright © Derek Lambert 1985

  Design and illustration by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

  Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

  Derek Lambert asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

  HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

  Source ISBN: 9780008268480

  Ebook Edition © November 2017 ISBN: 9780008268473

  Version: 2017-11-09

  DEDICATION

  To Roger and Lise.

  EPIGRAPH

  ‘… for life is a kind of Chess, in which we have often points to gain, and competitors or adversaries to contend with, and in which there is a vast variety of good and evil events that are, in some degree, the effect of prudence, or the want of it …’

  Benjamin Franklin

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Opening

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Adjournment

  Chapter 14

  Middle Game

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Adjournment

  Chapter 23

  End Game

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Keep Reading

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  About the Publisher

  OPENING

  CHAPTER 1

  Kreiber peered into the black wound in the river ice and in the light of a kerosene flare saw the face of a young man peering up at him.

  He wasn’t surprised because nothing surprised him when he had been nipping steadily at the vodka bottle, but he was intrigued, so intrigued that he scarcely heeded the footsteps behind him.

  Probably another fisherman who had left his hole carved in the frozen curve of the River Moscow to pick his way through the darkness to cadge some bait.

  The footsteps slithered, stopped.

  Kreiber continued to stare at the reflection of the young man whose face occasionally shivered into rippled particles in the iced wind blowing in from Siberia.

  A face from the past.

  My face.

  Kreiber, packaged against the cold with felt and newspaper and a fur hat with spaniel ears, took a long pull of Ahotnichaya, hunter’s vodka, and smiled sadly, almost paternally, at the young warrior, armed to the teeth with ideals, that he had once been.

  Twenty years ago a girl who had crossed the wall from East to West Berlin had espied those ideals and sunk sharp teeth into them. A refugee was what she had claimed to be; a recruitment officer seeking Western brains was what she had proved to be.

  ‘Look at the decadence around you,’ she had fumed to Kreiber, nuclear physicist, harnessing awesome powers to preserve peace. ‘Look at the capitalists, hedonists, wheeler-dealers and neo-Nazis. Do you think they give a pfennig for humanity?’

  And so persuasive was her tongue, so compliant her magnificent body, that, reversing the trend, he had trotted from West to East of the divided city and thence to Moscow, losing the girl in transit, only to discover that in Russia there were those who didn’t give a kopek for humanity.

  A long time ago. At forty-five he was now an old man in a still-alien city finding contemplative pleasure in long night-watches beside the black hole in the ice threaded with a line and tackle.

  Taking another nip of firewater, he winked at the Kreiber he had once been. ‘Don’t worry,’ the wink said, ‘we’ll show them yet.’ He warmed mittened hands against his charcoal brazier and found strength from it.

  The man in the long black coat stood directly behind Kreiber, eyes glittering in the holes in his grey wool mask.

  A fish attracted by the kerosene flare tugged Kreiber’s line and the young face in the water disappeared in the commotion.

  Kreiber pulled; the fish pulled. A fat lunch there judging by its strength, probably bigger than anything the other anglers hunched beside their flares and charcoal braziers had caught. Not that he would ever know: they didn’t discuss their catches with the foreigner who fished alone on the fringe of the ice-camp.

  The fish gave a little. Kreiber slipped, kicking the brazier. A charcoal ember fell hissing on the ice. But his quarry was firmly hooked. Maria would cook the fish in butter and he would wash it down with a bottle of Georgian white.

  An aircraft, red light winking, passed high over the fishermen engrossed beside their black troughs on the outskirts of Moscow. Kreiber wondered if it was flying to Berlin.

  The man in the black coat pinioned Kreiber’s arms from behind, twisted one behind his back. He wasn’t excessively strong but Kreiber was vodka weak. Kreiber began a scream but it was cut out by a sweet-smelling rag pressed hard against his mouth.

  He kicked backwards, lurched forward, pain burning his trapped arm. He let go of the line and thought ludicrously: ‘The one that got away.’

  He was propelled, feet slipping, the last few centimetres to the edge of the neat round abyss that he had cut that evening. Beside him the line ran out as the fish dived.

  A dreamy fatalism overtook him. The other anglers, he supposed, were too far away or too deep in their reveries to notice anything untoward. In any case you don’t tangle with a foreigner’s problems.

  How about a last slug of Ahotnichaya to dispatch him glowing from this life? With his free hand he tore away the hand from his mouth but his plea for a last nip was a rubbery mumble.

  Cold ran up his legs. His feet splashed. He was paddling in a lake in the Grunewald in West Berlin. Pressure on his shoulders, down, down.

  He inhaled wa
ter as, with the girl at his side, he crossed the border from Capitalism to Communism never to return.

  Bitch!

  He began to fight, thrashing the black water with his legs, clawing at the terrible pressure above, but dragged inexorably down the ice-tube by water-logged newspaper and felt.

  He managed to grasp the edge of the ice. Crack. He heard the bones in his fingers snap as heavy boots stamped on them. Crack. Still he held on, not feeling pain anymore, just the cold of the grave.

  Boots, kicking, pushing, grinding. Broken fingers uncurled.

  Why?

  Then he gave up the fight.

  Gently, almost gratefully, he slid into the darkness to join the young man he had seen in the light of the flare, realising in the end that he had been beckoning him.

  Gazing at Kreiber’s alabaster features in the open coffin in the Institute for World Economy and International Affairs, Robert Calder was nudged by an elbow of fear. How accidental had the deaths of any defectors been? How natural the causes?

  In front of him in the queue in the entrance hall Kreiber’s maid, Maria, built like a wrestler, sobbed enthusiastically. She moved on, sniffing into a scarlet handkerchief, Calder took her place directly above Kreiber’s shuttered stare.

  According to the post mortem Kreiber’s blood had been lethally charged with alcohol. Another Friday night drunk. Another statistic.

  Calder, legal brain blunted but still cynical, didn’t quite buy that. Kreiber’s capacity for hunter’s vodka had been phenomenal and he had been an experienced ice fisherman.

  Bowing his head, Calder examined the face that had been spotted two days after his disappearance peering from beneath thin ice between reflections of the cupolas of the Kremlin close to Bolshoi Kammenyi Bridge. They had been ennobled by the mortician but beneath the cosmetics you could still trace wandering lines of indecision.

  At least, another defector could trace them. Calder touched his own face. The lines, dye-stamped by doubt, were as indecisive as Kreiber’s. And yet according to the photographs, his features had once been strong, almost fierce, as he strode the campus, climbed Capitol Hill; even as he crossed the divide between Washington and Moscow.

  Kreiber, you sad sonofabitch, what happened?

  The elbow of fear sharpened.

  He left the coffin and joined the group of mourners, mostly defectors who worked at the Institute, waiting to depart for the cremation. The coffin, marooned in the echoing lobby, seemed to be pointing at them.

  A blade of cold reached him through a crack in the inner doors of the entrance. Outside, the chilled February breeze nosing through streets still winged with soiled snow would be an executioner – a winter funeral usually dispatched some of the bereaved to their own graves.

  Maria was there, stuffing her mouth with sugar-coated red-currants which she fished from a cracked plastic shopping bag. And Fabre, the French defector, creased tortoise face bobbing above the moulting collar of his topcoat, and Langley, the Canadian, one time ice-hockey star and sexual athlete, and … a girl Calder didn’t recognise.

  She had grey eyes and her black hair, released from the fur hat she carried in her hand, made an untidy frame for her winter-pale face. Langley, of course, was talking to her but he didn’t seem to be making much of an impression.

  ‘She’s the new girl in Personnel,’ Fabre informed Calder, lungs making rusty music as he spoke. ‘She keeps our files in order.’

  So she was Surveillance. A pity. But you couldn’t blame her: she wouldn’t have any choice.

  ‘Attractive, ‘Fabre judged, ‘in a distant sort of way, ‘vowels in his English theatrically Gallic.

  Distant? Perhaps. When cornered by Langley. But Calder detected a challenge in the set of her eyes and mouth. Her nose was, perhaps, a little too assertive but, having had his own broken in a locker-room brawl at Harvard, he was sensitive on the subject of noses.

  Fabre, losing Calder’s attention, turned to Maria. ‘A merciful release,’ he said in cassette Russian, bobbing his head towards the coffin. Startled, Maria stopped chewing. Red juice trickled down her chins like blood. But Fabre didn’t give up that easily. ‘He died for a good cause.’

  Maria turned her back on him: the only cause she knew anything about was earning enough money or horse-trading enough merchandise to keep the stew bubbling on the stove. Any other causes unsettled her: they sounded official.

  Despite his misgivings, Calder smiled at her. She regarded him suspiciously for a moment, then grinned. It was spectacular, that grin, shining here and there with steel teeth, and it banished Calder’s foreboding. Maria delved into her bag and produced half a dozen white-powdered redcurrants cupped in one hand. She handed them to Calder who chewed them slowly; they were delicious, sweet and sharp. He glanced up and saw the girl from Personnel smiling at him; it was positively unseemly – any minute now they’d all be rolling in the aisles.

  Fabre said coldly: ‘This is a funeral not a burlesque.’

  Calder was saved by the doorman who, as the last of the mourners trailed past the coffin, herded by a KGB sheepdog in a square-shouldered topcoat, let the cold in. Whoosh, it entered snapping and Calder buttoned up his grey Crombie (Blooming-dales and still wearing well) as the girl put on her fur hat, tucking in her hair with long fingers.

  He wondered how much, being in Personnel, she knew about him.

  As the red-draped coffin, destined for Donskoi Monastery, was carried down the outside steps by six pall-bearers, their breath smoking with exertion, Maria dug him in the ribs. ‘Come.’ She licked red juice from her lips with the tip of her tongue.

  But he didn’t follow her into the blue and white coach, doubling up as transport and hearse, along with the other forty or so mourners. Instead, although he had no intention of attending the last rites, he followed in his black Zhiguli.

  He parked the small car in Donskaya Square and waited in it while the coffin and wreaths and red cushion bearing Kreiber’s three Soviet decorations were carried into the monastery, stone walls surrounding the five bunched domes of the cathedral still plastered with old snow. The corpse would be burned immediately, ashes flown to West Berlin in an earthenware casket adorned with a sprightly hammer and sickle. In the final reckoning both sides would be seen to be commendably decent. What harm could a few cinders do?

  Through the exhaust fumes billowing past the windshield Calder picked out the defectors among the mourners following the coffin. American, British, German, French, Dutch, Canadian, Scandanavian, Australian … known to the KGB as The Twilight Brigade.

  Twilight …. How many of them, trapped between day and night, between dog and wolf, had wondered, as he had done, about the deaths of their fellows?

  Donald Maclean, British diplomat and partner in a celebrated defection in 1952, who had died in March ‘83, ostensibly from cancer. Could he have been slipped a few spoonfuls of Brompton Mixture, alcohol, cocaine and heroin? It was said to dispatch patients singing.

  Be fair. Even if the mixture had been prescribed it could have been on compassionate grounds. After all it was prescribed in the West freely enough.

  And Guy Burgess, Maclean’s partner in espionage and homosexual lush, who had died in his sleep in 1963 in an iron bed in the Botkin Hospital. He had died from booze. But, of course, the simplest way to hasten the death of an alcoholic is to inject him with alcohol.

  When Maria and the girl – was she the reason he had driven to Donskaya Square? – had been hustled into the monastery by the shepherd from State Security, Calder drove onto Lenin Prospect and headed for the centre of the city. Tomorrow, he promised himself, such neurotic fantasies would be banished for ever. Unless another defector died too accidentally or too naturally or too soon.

  If in doubt consult Dalby.

  Calder arranged to meet him late that afternoon beside the waterless fountain at the entrance to Sokolinki Park. You could safely trade indiscretions in Sokolinki’s lonely pastures of snow and belts of silver birch thick with silence.


  When Calder arrived on Friday night boozers were already gathering, tilting bottles of vodka bought legally or paid as wages or distilled by the friendly chemist on the corner of the block, banding together in case any of them collapsed, easy prey for teenage muggers.

  Hands deep into the pockets of his Crombie, fur hat worn with a jauntiness he didn’t feel, Calder roamed between the burgeoning drunks and the pavilions remaining from international exhibitions. The cold crisped his nostrils.

  No sign of Dalby. But, like the Russians with whom he mixed more compatibly than most defectors, he wasn’t noted for punctuality. From the very beginning of his banishment from Britain he had managed to adapt. Calder envied him.

  ‘Good evening my dear fellow.’

  Calder spun round. Dalby still managed to surprise; that was thirty years of espionage for you. He was smiling benignly. Although the slanting lines on his face had settled into pouches Dalby, now in his seventies, still looked like an urbane pirate. He wore a peaked cap instead of a shapka, challenging the cold to take off his ears.

  He squeezed Calder’s arm. ‘Come, let’s take a walk.’

  They walked down one of the avenues that had once rung to the harness jingle of aristocratic coaches; on either side the snow had been packed hard and bright by children at play and cross-country skiers, but they had departed for the night and loneliness was settling.

  Calder glanced at the fountain. He saw a figure detach itself from the boozers and strike out towards the avenue.

  ‘Is he there?’ Dalby asked.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a watchdog.’

  Dalby chuckled. ‘Not me, my dear chap. You.’

  Sokolinki was derived from the Russian for falcon because falconry had once been practised in the park and Calder felt the scissored nip of sharp talons. ‘I wasn’t aware I was being followed.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be, would you? Not if your watchdog is a pro. And the comrades are very professional in these m …matters.’ Paradoxically, Dalby’s occasional stammer refurbished his authority.

  ‘How did you know I was being followed?’