Black Gambit

by Clark, Eric

  Zorin walked out of the Metro on to parkland. He covered the open ground to the main entrance, aware that he was still being followed. As he entered the broad lane leading to the Central Pavilion and the start of the exhibition, he checked his watch. Just after four. He was still a little late.

  In the Pavilion, he stood for a long time before the two epic canvases depicting the storming of the Winter Palace and Lenin proclaiming Soviet rule. The man following him was still there, but looking decidedly restless. Zorin wandered on.

  Despite his cynicism about the wholesale propaganda of the authorities, despite his disquiet about priorities, Zorin had been immensely impressed on his only other visit to the Exhibition. He had the same feelings now, of enormous patriotism and pride.

  In the main hall of the pavillion he stood in front of an electrified map of the Soviet Union showing the fantastic bounds made by every industry under every five year plan. Did people really believe it? Probably.

  Zorin left the Central Pavilion and walked into People’s Friendship Square, passing the two massive fountains, disregarding the pavilions around the square. He walked slowly. It would have been easy enough to lose his pursuer in the crowds but he wanted to see first whether that was necessary. If it was, he could always lose him on leaving the Exhibition grounds: then he would be ‘missing’ for the shortest possible time — too short, he hoped, for the KGB man even to report losing his quarry.

  His beard was tickling and he resisted a desire to scratch.

  In front of Zorin a crowd of earnest-faced East Germans were being led in double file towards the Crop Farming Pavilion.

  He entered Industry Square, dominated by a reproduction of the rocket that took Gagarin into space in 1961. As always there were groups around the base. He used them as protection while he watched the crowd. There was no sign of the dark-suited man. Good but not necessarily conclusive: he too could be hidden in a group. The elation was dwindling and Zorin forced himself to take an interest in the exhibits. Inside the Cosmos Pavilion he wandered around sputniks, luniks, and rockets.

  With perhaps forty-five minutes left before he needed to leave the grounds, Zorin took the lane to the ponds where people were fishing and boating. Although the day was hot, the grass still held dampness. He used his coat as a groundsheet and lay down, ostensibly relaxing just like everyone else. For half an hour, he ran through the coming scenario like an actor on opening night, faced with the sudden fear that he will forget all his lines.

  At 5.40 he climbed to his feet and walked slowly back towards the Metro. It was here that the dark-suited man might be waiting. Zorin caught no sight of him. It was possible, of course, that they had changed tails, but there seemed no reason. Half the point of following him was to harass him, to give him constant warnings that all his actions were being observed.

  Nevertheless, at Prospekt Metro station he made one unnecessary change, taking the circle line in the wrong direction for two stations before transferring and retracing his journey.

  It was 6.25 when he arrived at Krasnopresncnskaya station and walked out of the train into the underground vestibule decorated with its bas-reliefs of the 1905 uprising.

  On the escalator he checked his watch again: almost 6.30. Right on time. He took the bandaid from his pocket and peeled off the backing strip. As he stepped out into the street, he stuck it to his left cheek bone in the exact position he had practised day after day.

  Outside the station he was sure at last. No one was following him.

  He sat for a few seconds on a low wall, a tired sightseer. The false heel from his right pocket fitted easily into the palm of his hand, and he was able to locate the studs in the holes of his shoe-heel without looking. He stood and began walking slowly. The false heel, on one shoe only, made him limp — just like Parker had.

  *

  While Zorin was riding the Metro, Parker was wandering around Moscow Zoo. He hated zoos. But this one lying as it did off Krasnaya Presyna Street, was a perfect location for the final stages before the actual switchover.

  He tried to make his walk take him past animals who enjoyed the maximum amount of freedom. By accident he found himself facing cages of birds … a huge eagle lifted itself and began to rise, and where it should have soared came to land with a thump a few yards away.

  For a moment he was back in his own cage.

  At the large pond near the entrance he stretched out on a bench, staring at the swans and ducks and the artificial island. Gradually he felt better. He lit a cigarette, his last American one for a while, placed the pack in his raincoat pocket together with his lighter. He undid his tie, rolled it, put it in his pocket. He finished the cigarette; it was 6.30 and time to go.

  As he left through the main gates he pulled the band-aid off his left cheek and dropped it into a litter bin.

  From the far side of Sadovo Kudirnskaya Street, only a few paces from Uprising Square, Zorin paused. He could see the silvery cupola of the Moscow Planetarium. A trickle of people were heading towards it, making for the last programme which would begin at seven o’clock, in just fifteen minutes.

  He recognized the man before he reached the entrance to the drive, but he waited until the gesture confirmed it. Parker stopped for a moment, lifted his raincoat out of the loops of the airline bag, and placed it over his left arm.

  *

  Zorin counted slowly to sixty — one and, two and, three and — before crossing the road. He paid, collected his programme and followed Parker in the direction of the cloakrooms.

  In return for his coat he received a metal disc, number 17. The lavatories were beyond and Zorin saw Parker enter an empty cubicle. His instructions, Zorin knew, were to wait until there were two adjoining ones empty. Zorin hurried forward, almost forgetting his limp until he stumbled. He reached the cubicle and entered.

  Zorin began to work, forcing himself not to rush. The first step was to unstrap the airline bag. Into it he placed the beret and the false beard which he tore off. He slipped on the red tie from his pocket and put on the spectacles. He ran his hand around his chin for traces of dried glue. He could find none, but as a precaution he used one of the impregnated spirit pads carried in a vacuum wrapper. Finally, satisfied, he rustled some toilet paper, flushed the chain and left.

  Parker heard him go. His final steps were more difficult, more time-consuming. He worked through them methodically.

  He folded the case and strapped it under his shirt. The lens turret of the camera was unscrewed and placed in one pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief, the body in the other. Then, gently, he began to ease off the wig. That went into a trouser pocket. He did not worry about the bulges; they were part of the changeover. Adding the false beard came last. Checking his face in the pocket mirror, he ran a comb through his hair and beard and moustache. Breathing heavily, he left the cubicle and went to wash.

  *

  In the gloom of the Planetarium, the two men collided, dropped coat rings, helped each other find them, apologized and found their seats.

  Parker looked at his ring as he sat down. Number 17. He put it in his pocket.

  In the collision he had not glanced at the other. Now, as lights began to dim, he looked around. Finally he found him. He felt a lump form in his stomach — he saw himself in the other man. Then Zorin turned in his direction. He must have been curious too.

  For a few moments the two men stared at each other. Then the lights died, and the stars of a Moscow night sky glowed in the dark hall.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE NEWS THAT the switchover had been completed reached Sunnenden and Scott just before one o’clock in the morning, Washington time, on Tuesday June 4.

  They were sitting in Sunnenden’s office, Scott stretched on the sofa, a paper cup of cold coffee held in his hand.

  He had fallen asleep for an hour while they waited. His head had continued whirling with the details that Sunnenden had given him about the escape plan. Now he felt even worse than before.

  ‘Come on,
Bob,’ Scott said straining to keep his voice light. ‘At least it means that the Ruskies don’t know what’s happening yet. We’ve still got a chance to do something before they do.’

  ‘But what?’ The question lay heavily.

  Sunnenden picked up a partly-empty Scotch bottle and waved it towards Scott.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Scott vaguely. He started to say ‘Go easy on the sauce,’ then thought better of it.

  From the outer office there was a sudden clatter from the wire machine. Scott started. Sunnenden paused from pouring his drink. ‘They test at this time,’ he said. Nevertheless he walked through and read the tape.

  ‘Just in case,’ he explained as he returned. ‘But it was testing. Just testing.’

  He picked up his glass, assessed the level and added a spot more.

  There was no sound now except for a slight hum from the wire machine. The only light came from two pools, one thrown on to the desk by a reading-lamp and another from the spotlight beside the sofa.

  ‘I suppose we’re certain about this,’ Scott said at last.

  ‘About the switchover working?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘The arrangements for checking were pretty good.’ Sunnenden noticed that he was having to speak very precisely to avoid slurring his words. He added more water to his drink before outlining the arrangements: the drunk in the courtyard of Zorin’s block who would report the arrival home of the man he thought was the geneticist, the cleaner at the hotel who would note ‘Parker’s’ return.

  ‘They could have been turned.’ Scott did not believe it himself. He was talking for the sake of it. The details of the plan had impressed him, reinforcing his anger at Sunnenden for making it necessary to try to abort it.

  Sunnenden did not reply.

  Scott stood and raised his hands high above his head as he stretched. ‘Let’s go and see your friend Cory,’ he said.

  Sunnenden looked at his watch. It was after 1.20 a.m. ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now,’ Scott’s voice was harder. ‘I reckon we’ve got five or six hours to come up with something. Does Cory even know the switch has taken place?’

  ‘No. I was about to phone.’

  Putting on his jacket, Scott saw Sunnenden reaching out for his drink. His anger erupted. He had helped and encouraged the young man; now Sunnenden had not only blown this operation, but in so doing had negated all Scott’s work. After this Sunnenden’s days — and use — were over.

  ‘And,’ Scott snapped, ‘for God’s sake let’s lay off the sauce, okay?’

  *

  The night seemed endless. Reliving it as dawn broke, Zorin could focus only on short scenes. The moment when he collected the room key at the hotel, the relief when it was handed over without even a glance. The long walk to the elevator. The sight of the bottle on the bed. He had smiled at that because he knew so well what it meant — the American and he had felt a similar need to wish each other well and had conveyed it in almost identical ways.

  For perhaps a half hour there had been the pleasure of activity: stripping, packing up the items of unwanted disguise, carefully rubbing a measured amount of selftanning lotion into his beardless chin so that by morning it would not show paler than the rest of his face, and then familiarizing himself with Parker’s belongings. Finally there had been the ultimate of luxuries, a large Scotch drunk slowly in the bath.

  But finally, and it was only eleven, the waiting began. Only once had he drifted into sleep and he forced himself out of it: the nightmares were too vivid.

  Dawn was a blessing. Zorin looked down into the square, watching the old women with their cleaning brooms far below. He found some chocolate bars in Parker’s case and ate one while he watched; he would save the rest to eat for breakfast instead of going down to the dining room.

  At seven he began shaving, a strange sensation after years of wearing a beard. The skin where the beard had been was sore, and he winced as he pulled the blade over it.

  At seven thirty, conscious that he was stretching out the time so that every moment would be filled and there would be no waiting at the end, he began to dress: checked trousers and a dark blue blazer, easily the most Western looking clothes in Parker’s wardrobe. They fitted perfectly.

  At eight he swallowed two more chocolate bars, debated whether to go downstairs for tea, decided against that, and drank two glasses of water.

  At eight thirty he packed the single suitcase and the shoulder bag and at nine was carrying his own luggage down into the lobby to catch the airport bus with the rest of the group.

  He knew what to look for: the travel agency’s green and white lapel badges. Even so, he panicked at first; the lobby was so crowded with groups that he doubted he would find them without making it obvious he was not who he pretended to be.

  He was saved and given courage — at the same time.

  ‘Mr Partridge,’ she said. ‘Come on, the rest are over there.’

  And, smiling, the girl in the tour guide’s uniform led the way towards one of the side doors.

  The rest of the group were already in line, making their way into the street where the bus stood waiting. Zorin had been nervous about replying to the girl, even in his well-rehearsed whisper, but there was no need: she was busily checking off names as people boarded.

  Once inside the bus, he sat, ostentatiously sniffing and holding a handkerchief to his nose. A man two seats away looked as though he was about to offer him a sweet (a cough lozenge?) and then changed his mind.

  The bus filled and passersby in the street outside peered at the windows with the curiosity of those who are never going to go anywhere outside their own country.

  The coach began to pull away from the kerb and there was a hum of conversation now: souvenirs were admired, experiences shared, hangovers compared.

  The bus left the centre and began its journey past the dull blocks that would stretch all the way to the airport.

  Zorin lit a cigarette, hardly tasting the mild American tobacco — he and his friends used to say that it was tobacco for women.

  He felt himself reaching inside his jacket and fingering the edge of his passport: a strange sensation. He wanted to take it out and stare at it, examine the face that peered out.

  At the front of the bus, the tour guide was speaking into a microphone, giving them instructions on how to form themselves into their respective groups and what to do when they arrived.

  As the airport came into view Zorin was concentrating on his fellow passengers. Most of the talk was in English, but he heard some German and what he thought was Swedish. All would have been in Russia, what? Four, five, six days, perhaps even fourteen? Did they feel they knew the country now?

  He was last out of the bus, hesitant like the rest, waiting for small groups to form, and directions to be given.

  ‘Nothing but bloody queues,’ he heard a voice say. At least someone had collected one impression. And yet it stung: he loved his country. He felt like a father; he alone could criticize his child. Now that he was going, part of him almost wanted to be caught — so that he would not have to leave.

  The stream of tourists set off, zig-zagging over indoor expanses of nothing, weighed down with cases, encouraged forward by the guide. They were hurrying; either they were late or the girl wanted to get away. Whatever the reason, Zorin suspected they would arrive early and have to wait.

  The guide came round and did a head count: twenty-three. It was obviously the correct number. They were led off again. The next time they stopped was at the passport control point.

  Zorin had positioned himself about two-thirds down the line, assuming that the border guard would spend time with the first people he saw and then, perhaps, the last.

  His fellow tourists began fumbling for their passports. A couple a few yards in front of him were having difficulties; finally they found them in a carrier bag. Zorin could not comprehend how anyone could be careless with such a precious possession.

  They shuffled forward until, a
fter twenty nerve-racking minutes, it was Zorin’s turn. He handed over the passport. For what seemed an eternity the guard studied the pink visa page containing Parker’s photograph. Then he ripped off the sheet, handed back the passport and barked ‘Next.’

  Zorin hurried through, scurrying to catch up with the previous tourists, desperate for the protection of the group. The first hurdle was over.

  The second was more nerve-racking, because it took longer and because he was forced to answer questions.

  ‘This your camera?’ asked the official who was checking his case. The question was asked in Russian.

  Zorin forced himself to look blank and lost. With a gesture bordering on despair, the official repeated it in English.

  Zorin nodded and whispered ‘Yes.’

  He wanted to smoke but dared not. Even if his hands did not tremble, he feared that the simple act of lighting up might look suspicious. The official emptied half the case. He held up a shirt, tossed it back into the case, unfolded, and turned away to talk to a colleague behind him.

  Zorin waited.

  The official turned, ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Go. Go.’

  Zorin piled the belongings back into the case, zipped it and passed into the departure hall without looking back.

  Suddenly he knew he was safe. Oh yes, much could happen still, but his fears had gone. They were replaced by a kind of numbness. Take-off meant nothing. He did not bother to lean over to stare out at Moscow as it unfolded below him.

  He sat immobile for perhaps an hour, seatbelt still fastened. Then automatically he reached out and took the newspaper the stewardess was distributing. The words were a jumble; suddenly he began to shiver and his eyes filled with tears.

  *

  Parker spent the morning of Tuesday, June 4, looking through Zorin’s apartment.

  He was not searching for anything in particular, he was simply curious. From the moment he had seen Zorin’s face, he had wanted to know more about him.

  In Washington he had studied Zorin, read his psychological profile, watched the films of him walking and sitting and climbing steps, heard tapes of his voice, read translations of his words … But, now Parker felt that, despite everything, he did not know him at all.