Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Then let’s hope that they’re a bit more friendly than the English passengers on board, because if they aren’t, we’re about to find out the true meaning of the word ‘standoffish.’”

  “The chef’s also English,” said Elena, “and he couldn’t have been kinder. He even apologized for not being able to act as one of my sponsors.”

  “He daren’t risk it,” said Sasha. “There’s a warrant out for his arrest. Whenever the ship docks in Southampton, he has to remain on board. Fergal tells me he locks himself in the kitchen and doesn’t reappear until they’ve left the harbor.”

  “Poor man,” said Elena.

  Sasha decided not to tell his mother the reason the British police wanted to arrest Eddie.

  * * *

  Elena and Sasha joined Mr. Moretti on the passenger deck the following morning, but not before Sasha had vacuumed the dining room, and Elena had left the kitchen spotless.

  “Magnifico,” said Moretti, when he saw Elena in her new dress. “When did you find time to go shopping?” he teased.

  “The crew have been so generous,” said Elena. “But don’t say anything about Sasha’s jeans,” she whispered. “Fergal isn’t quite as tall as him, and he’s still growing.”

  Mr. Moretti smiled as Sasha leaned over the railings and watched two dockers winding one of the ship’s heavy ropes around a bollard and tying it fast.

  “Let’s hope the immigration authorities are equally understanding,” said Moretti, as he picked up his bags and headed for the gangway with Elena and Sasha in his wake. “But you have one thing going for you—the British hate the communists every bit as much as you do.”

  “Do you think they’ll let us in?” asked Elena anxiously as they stepped onto the dockside.

  “Thanks to the purser, we can be confident that all the necessary forms have been correctly filled in, so we’ll just have to cross our fingers.”

  “Cross our fingers?” repeated Sasha.

  “Hope we get lucky,” said Moretti. “Now remember, Sasha, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, and if the immigration officer asks you a question, just say ‘yes, sir,’ ‘no, sir,’ ‘three bags full, sir.’”

  Elena burst out laughing. Sasha couldn’t stop looking around him as they walked along the dockside. Some buildings looked as if they’d been built quite recently, while others had just about survived the war. The locals appeared to be relaxed, and no one had their head bowed, while the women were dressed in colorful clothes and chatted to the men as if they were equals. Sasha had already decided he wanted to live in this country.

  Mr. Moretti headed toward a large brick building with the single word ALIENS chiseled in stone above the door.

  When they entered, they were greeted by two signs: BRITISH and NON UK CITIZENS. Elena crossed her fingers as they joined the longer queue, and couldn’t help wondering if they would be back on the ship bound for Leningrad long before the sun set on what was left of the British Empire.

  Sasha watched as those holding British passports received a cursory inspection, followed by a smile. Even tourists were not kept waiting more than a few moments. The Karpenkos were about to find out how the British treated those people who didn’t have a passport.

  “Next!” said a voice.

  Mr. Moretti stepped forward and gave his passport to the immigration officer, who checked it carefully before passing it back. Moretti then handed over several sheets of paper along with two photographs, before turning to acknowledge his wards. The official didn’t smile as he slowly turned each page, and finally checked that the photographs matched the two applicants standing in front of him. Moretti felt confident that everything was in, to quote the purser, “apple pie” order, but couldn’t help wondering if that would be enough.

  Elena became more nervous by the minute, while Sasha just seemed impatient to find out what lay beyond the barrier. Eventually the officer looked up and beckoned the two would-be immigrants to step forward. Elena was only thankful that they weren’t dressed in their old clothes.

  “Do you speak English?” the officer asked Elena.

  “A little, sir,” she replied nervously.

  “And are you in possession of a passport, Mrs. Karpenko?”

  “No, sir. The communists don’t allow anyone to travel outside the country, even to visit relatives, so my son and I escaped without any papers.”

  “I’m sorry to say,” began the officer—Elena’s heart sank—“that given the circumstances I can only authorize a temporary visa, while you apply to the Home Office for refugee status, and I can’t guarantee that will be granted.” Elena bowed her head. “And,” the officer continued, “you will be subject to several conditions while your application for citizenship is being processed. Should you fail to comply with any of them, you will be deported back to”—he looked down at the form—“Leningrad.”

  “Where they would be locked up for the rest of their lives,” said Moretti. “Or worse.”

  “Be assured,” said the officer, “that will be taken into consideration when their applications come before the Home Office.” He smiled at Elena and Sasha for the first time, and said, “Welcome to Britain.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Moretti before Elena could respond. “But may we know what those conditions are?”

  “Mrs. Karpenko and her son will have to report to the nearest police station once a week for the next six months. Should they fail to do so, an arrest warrant will be issued, and when they are apprehended they will be placed in a detention center. They can then expect their applications for citizenship to be refused. I should add, Mr. Moretti, that as their sponsor, you will be responsible for them at all times, and if either of them should attempt to abscond, you would not only have to pay a heavy fine, but would also face the possibility of a term of imprisonment of not less than six months.”

  “I fully understand,” said Moretti.

  “And if anything claimed on their application form should prove to be bogus…”

  “Bogus?” said Elena.

  “Inaccurate. If that should be the case, your application will automatically be declined.”

  “But I have only told the truth,” protested Elena.

  “Then you have nothing to fear, Mrs. Karpenko.” He handed Moretti a small booklet. “You’ll find everything you need to know in there.”

  Elena shuddered, and couldn’t help wondering if they had climbed into the right crate.

  “I can assure you, officer,” said Moretti, “Mrs. Karpenko and her son will be model citizens.”

  “Will the young man also be working in your restaurant, Mr. Moretti?” asked the officer, not even looking at Sasha.

  “No, sir,” said Elena firmly. “I want him to continue with his education.”

  “Then you will have to register the boy at the nearest local authority school.” Elena nodded, even though she had no idea what he was talking about. The officer turned his attention to Sasha for the first time, looking down at his ankles. “I see you’re growing fast,” he said. Sasha remembered Mr. Moretti’s advice, and remained silent. “You’ll have to work hard when you go to your new school if you hope to succeed in this country,” said the officer, giving the young immigrant a warm smile.

  Sasha returned the smile and said, “Yes, sir; no, sir; three bags full, sir.”

  7

  ALEX

  En route to New York

  Alex stared out at endless miles of flat, uninterrupted sea, and could only wonder if he’d ever see land again, while his mother just continued to get on with her job. The menu didn’t vary from one day to the next, so Elena quickly mastered the simple routine, and began to take on more and more responsibility while Strelnikov’s siestas became longer and longer.

  She and Alex looked forward to being released each evening, when Dimitri would join them on deck and tell them more about life in “the Big Apple,” and his small flat in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn.

  Elena told Dimitri about her husband and her brother
, Kolya, and why Major Polyakov had been the reason they’d had to escape. Alex watched Dimitri carefully, and couldn’t help feeling that the friendly Russian knew exactly who Polyakov was, and even wondered if they’d put his uncle in danger. But the subject that continued to occupy them was how Elena and Alex would get off the ship once they’d docked in New York. Alex reluctantly accepted that without Dimitri’s help they were never going to make it.

  “What will we do if Strelnikov locks us in the galley while the ship’s cargo is being unloaded?” asked Elena.

  “There are still a couple of bottles of vodka left over that he doesn’t know about,” said Dimitri, “and they might just mysteriously appear in the galley the day before we’re due to arrive in New York. With a bit of luck, by the time he wakes up you’ll be on your way to Brooklyn.”

  * * *

  For the next week, Elena and Alex worked endless hours, never once complaining, even though the chef rarely left his chair.

  With only a couple of days to go, Strelnikov ran out of vodka, which meant he didn’t fall asleep quite as easily, and they both had to suffer his wrath.

  As Dimitri had promised, another couple of bottles appeared while Strelnikov was taking his siesta on the afternoon before they were due to arrive in New York. Elena had to take over cooking lunch, because the moment Strelnikov woke and saw the bottles by his side, he opened one of them immediately and had taken several gulps before he demanded, “Where did these come from?”

  Mr. Ling shrugged his shoulders and continued to slice the potatoes, while Elena checked the soup. Strelnikov showed more interest in finishing off the first bottle than in preparing lunch. Elena could only marvel at how much the man could consume without collapsing, and it wasn’t until after dinner that he finally slumped in his chair and fell into a deep sleep.

  Elena and Alex crept out of the galley and made their way up onto the deck, but couldn’t sleep as they gazed out across the open sea, willing Manhattan to appear on the skyline, becoming more confident by the minute that Dimitri’s plan would work. But just as the sun peeped over the horizon, a voice behind them bellowed, “Thought you’d get away with it, did you?”

  They turned to see Strelnikov standing over them brandishing a meat cleaver. Alex leaped up and glared at him defiantly.

  “Be my guest,” said the cook. “You wouldn’t be the first, and after the gulls have picked your bones I can assure you no one will miss you, other than your mother.”

  Alex didn’t budge. Behind them, the skyscrapers of New York were appearing on the horizon. Strelnikov was distracted when he spotted Alex’s lunch box. He bent down, opened it, and pocketed their life savings. He then picked up Elena’s suitcase, and after a cursory inspection hurled the contents overboard. “You won’t be needing those any longer,” he snarled.

  Still Alex refused to move, until Strelnikov grabbed Elena by the arm, placed the blade of the meat cleaver to her throat, and began to drag her downstairs, leaving Alex with no choice but to follow.

  Once they reached the lower deck Strelnikov stood aside and ordered Alex to open the door of the galley, before pushing him and Elena inside, and slamming the door behind them. Elena burst into tears when she heard the key turning in the lock.

  Mr. Ling was lounging in the cook’s chair, clutching on to the remaining bottle of vodka. He didn’t even glance in their direction as he drained the last drop, and quickly fell asleep.

  The sound of the ship’s foghorns as they entered New York harbor reverberated in the galley but Elena and Alex were powerless to do anything about it. They could feel the ship slowing down, until it finally came to a shuddering halt. Ling continued to snore peacefully as Elena and Alex sat helplessly on the floor, aware that when the ship returned to Leningrad, Strelnikov wouldn’t even have to lock them in.

  It must have been an hour, possibly two, before Mr. Ling finally stirred. He stretched, rose slowly from the cook’s chair, and made his way over to his workbench. But instead of starting to peel another bucket of potatoes, he knelt down, lifted one of the floorboards, and rummaged around. A few moments later a large grin appeared on his face. He made his way unhurriedly across the galley, placed a key in the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.

  Elena and Alex stood and stared at him. Finally Alex said, “You must come with us.”

  Mr. Ling bowed low. “No, not possible. This my home.” The first words they’d ever heard him speak. He closed the door behind them, and again they heard the key turning in the lock.

  Alex cautiously climbed the staircase. Once he’d reached the top step he looked out, as if he was a submariner peering through a periscope searching for the enemy. He waited for some time before he was convinced that Strelnikov and the rest of the ship’s company had gone ashore, leaving only a skeleton crew on board.

  He bent down and whispered to his mother, “I can see the gangway leading to the dock. When I say ‘Now,’ follow me, and whatever you do, don’t stop.”

  Alex waited for a few more seconds, and when no one appeared he climbed out onto the deck and began walking quickly, not running, toward the gangway, only glancing back to make sure Elena was a pace behind. Just as he reached the top of the gangway, he heard someone holler.

  “Stop those two!”

  His mother ran past him.

  He looked up at the bridge to see an officer signaling frantically at two deckhands who were unloading a crate from the hold. They immediately stopped what they were doing, but Alex was already halfway down the gangway. When he reached the dockside he looked back to see the two crew members running toward him, while Elena stood frozen by his side. He then heard footsteps coming from behind him and clenched his fists, although he knew he now had no chance.

  “They won’t be any trouble,” said Dimitri quietly, as he took his place by Alex’s side. The two deckhands came to an abrupt halt the moment they saw Dimitri. They hesitated for a few seconds before retreating and climbing back up the gangway. “Two good lads,” said Dimitri. “Truth is, they’d rather lose a couple of days’ pay than a couple of teeth.”

  “What now?” said Alex.

  “Follow me,” said Dimitri, and immediately marched off, clearly knowing exactly where he was going. Elena gripped Alex’s hand. Her son couldn’t hide his excitement at the prospect of living in America.

  Alex noticed that a number of passengers from other ships were heading in the opposite direction. Some of them were carrying leather bags while others were pushing laden trolleys, and one or two even had porters to assist them. Elena and Alex had no luggage. Everything they possessed had been either stolen or thrown overboard by Strelnikov.

  They followed in Dimitri’s wake as he headed toward an imposing stone building that announced above its entrance in bold white letters, ALIENS.

  When Elena entered the building she froze on the spot, staring in disbelief at the long queues of stateless people babbling away in so many different tongues, while all hoping for one thing—to be allowed to pass beyond the barrier and enter a new world.

  Dimitri joined the shortest queue, and beckoned Alex and Elena to join him. Alex didn’t hesitate, but Elena remained rooted to the spot, immovable as a statue.

  “Keep our place,” said Dimitri, “while I go and fetch your mother.”

  “Elena,” he said as he reached her side, “do you want to go back to Russia?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then get in line,” said Dimitri, raising his voice for the first time. Elena still looked unconvinced, as if weighing up the lesser of two evils. Finally Dimitri said, “If you don’t, you’ll never see your son again, because he certainly won’t be going back to Leningrad.” She reluctantly joined Alex at the back of the queue.

  Alex couldn’t wait to get moving, but had to watch a large black minute hand circle a massive clock three times before they finally reached the front of the queue.

  He filled the time by peppering Dimitri with questions about what they might expect once they had c
rossed the white line. Dimitri was more interested in making sure they had their story straight before they were questioned by an immigration officer who’d heard everything. Elena was convinced that when they heard her unlikely tale she would be marched straight back to the ship, and handed over to Strelnikov, before making the one-way journey to Leningrad, where she would find Major Polyakov standing on the dockside.

  “Make sure you both stick to the story we agreed on,” whispered Dimitri.

  “Next!” shouted a voice.

  Elena tentatively stepped forward, her eyes never leaving the man seated on a high stool behind a wooden desk, wearing a dark blue uniform with three stars on his lapels. Uniforms only meant one thing to Elena—trouble. And the more stars, the more trouble. As she approached the desk Alex pushed past her and gave the officer a huge grin, which was met with a frown. Dimitri pulled him back.

  “Are you one family?” the officer asked.

  “No, sir,” replied Dimitri. “But I am an American citizen,” he said, handing over his passport.

  The officer turned the pages slowly, checking dates and entry stamps before handing it back. He then opened a drawer in his desk, extracted a long form, placed it on the counter, and picked up a pen. He turned his attention to the woman in front of him, who appeared to be shaking.

  “What is your full name?”

  “Alexander Konstantinovitch Karpenko.”

  “Not you,” he said firmly. He pointed his pen at Elena.

  “Elena Ivanova Karpenko.”

  “Do you speak English?”

  “A little, sir.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “Leningrad, in the Soviet Union.”

  The officer filled in a couple of boxes before he continued. “Are you this lady’s husband?” he asked Dimitri.

  “No, sir. Mrs. Karpenko is my cousin, and her son, Alex, is my nephew.”

  Elena obeyed Dimitri’s instructions and said nothing, because she wasn’t willing to lie.

  “So where is your husband?” asked the officer, his pen poised.

  “He was—” began Dimitri.