Patriots

by Kevin Doherty

  *

  It was two thirty in the morning when he slouched up the long tunnel that led to Waterloo station. A bitter wind whipped around his legs and through the mackintosh, still stiff from its soaking.

  ‘Yes, sir! Can I help you?’

  The sarcasm was as heavy as the hand that suddenly pressed against his chest. He raised his eyes from the pavement to look at the policeman who blocked his path. He remembered the bobby at Southfields station. This man wasn’t going to be so easy to shake off.

  ‘I’m going for my train.’

  ‘No trains at this hour.’

  ‘I know. I’m going to wait for the first one.’

  ‘Not here you won’t. Anyway, how are you going to pay for a train? Cash-in your empties?’ The constable yanked the empty wine bottle from Knight’s pocket.

  ‘I’ve got a ticket.’

  ‘Let’s have a look.’

  Knight fumbled in the other pocket and handed the ticket over. The constable pushed the bottle back at him and pulled out a torch to examine the ticket.

  ‘Nice try.’ He tore it in half. ‘Yesterday’s. Where’d you pick it up? Go on – get out of here. Or you’ll come down Kennington Road with me.’ He dropped the pieces of torn card into the gutter and began to shoo Knight out of his way.

  Knight didn’t argue. He couldn’t. Somewhere in an inside pocket were his wallet and everything they needed to identify him: driving licence, credit cards, all brought along for the benefit of the man he’d gone to meet on Putney Heath. The man who hadn’t needed to see them.

  Still clutching the bottle, he turned to go back the way he’d come, and noticed the other policeman for the first time. He’d been standing by the constable’s elbow and slightly behind him. He was younger, early twenties. Knight thought he saw a flicker of something in his face; perhaps sympathy.

  ‘Try Cardboard City,’ the young bobby said quietly. The older constable glared at him.

  ‘Where?’ Knight asked dubiously.

  ‘Cardboard City. You’re new. Thought I hadn’t seen you before. Come on, I’ll show you how to get there.’

  Wondering what he was getting into, Knight followed him obediently back down the tunnel. When they got to the road the rain was starting again. He was in for another soaking. But that wasn’t what was running through his mind.

  *

  Three hours before. Almost supine in the stitched leather seats of the Ferrari. Serov’s Ferrari. A black Testarossa; Knight couldn’t even guess how much a car like that might have cost. Warm inside, Knight getting drier, the heater roaring. Rain on the roof like a tattoo. On the car’s parcel shelf, a London A–Z like his own. Naturally. Used by Serov or by someone acting on his behalf to compose the adverts.

  Passing through streets at random as they talked. Clapham, Dulwich, Lewisham, Deptford, Knight lost track of where else. Telling Serov about Kunaev and the philosophy book.

  ‘Inconvenient,’ said Serov. ‘But now we have bigger things to turn our minds to, you and I.’

  ‘Not me. I’m through.’

  Serov smiling in the eerie glow of the dashboard, like a devil in black leather. ‘I don’t think so, Boyar. Not when you hear what I have to say.’

  Then more endless streets. Knight losing track this time because of what Serov was saying. Sometimes in English, sometimes in Russian. Knight not believing what he was hearing; then having to believe it. Glad to believe it in the end because it offered hope, one last chance. Glad too of the bourbon when Serov produced it. Wondering where Serov’s pistol was. Could he grab it? Lose everything if he were to kill Serov. Serov knew it too, that was why he was relaxed. Knight not even thinking about it any more.

  ‘Those are my terms, Boyar. Take them or leave them.’

  ‘What?’ Knight was startled. An end had been reached. It was time to decide. As if there was a choice. As if there ever had been.

  ‘I would take your terms.’ He had to say it twice because his voice had cracked. The tension in him, not his soaking, was doing that. ‘But I don’t see how I can arrange what you want. I want to but I can’t see how. I’m through, I said. I have no ways in.’

  ‘You’ll think of something. You’re a resourceful man. We picked you well. And now you’re highly motivated.’

  One thought, from nowhere.

  ‘William Clarke.’

  Serov nodded. ‘Your Home Secretary. What about him?’

  ‘His death was part of it somehow, wasn’t it?’

  ‘His death was no part of it as far as my planning was concerned. But perhaps he became a casualty. Who can tell how these things come about? Perhaps he made himself unpopular, perhaps he opposed the British–US action.’

  The British–US action. Perhaps. Perhaps indeed.

  *

  ‘Did you get all that?’ the young bobby asked.

  ‘What?’ Startled again.

  ‘The directions I gave you.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, I think so. Thanks for your help.’

  When he got there, after wrong turnings because he’d hardly heard a word of the directions, the Royal Festival Hall was shuttered and quiet, its legitimate business long since over. But in the walkways underneath it, although they were empty of paying customers, a whole other world had come into existence. A world that now lay sleeping, for that was its only purpose in that place. Huge cardboard boxes, formerly the wrappings of washing machines or freezers, rolls of corrugated packing, newspapers, piles of tatty blankets and coats: these were the bedding of the night-time citizens of Cardboard City.

  It was a purgatory where there was no such thing as silence. Snores, mumblings and random cries as pitiful as in any madhouse, subdued laughter or sudden anger over the dregs of a bottle: these sounds greeted Knight as he picked his way through the huddled bodies and along the concrete passageways, looking for a space. He found one, sat down and pulled the mackintosh close about him. He had no other bedding and there were no surplus materials that he could see anywhere; it was a place where you brought your own bedding and took it away again in the morning. No matter; he wouldn’t sleep: he was too wet and uncomfortable for that. Not to mention the things that he had to think about.

  And there was one other thing that he had, even in this hell hole; that he hadn’t had three hours earlier.

  Hope.

  38

  Moscow

  Gramin plodded up the steps of the Serbskiy and paused at the top to catch his breath before pushing the heavy door open. God, how he hated this place. Any self-respecting KGB man did. It might be on his side today; but tomorrow?

  Ogarkin was waiting for him in the lobby, talking to one of the armed doormen. He broke off as soon as he saw Gramin enter.

  ‘It’s all right,’ the professor called to the other doorman, who’d planted himself in front of Gramin to ask his business. ‘He’s come to see me. Let him through.’

  Gramin cast the man a venomous glance as he moved out of the way, and crossed the lobby to Ogarkin.

  ‘Well, comrade Professor. Do you live or die?’

  Ogarkin’s eyes closed at this greeting. When he opened them Gramin had his finger on the lift button.

  ‘Well?’ he repeated.

  Ogarkin pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped his streaming nose.

  ‘We think she’ll be all right,’ he mumbled. He gave a heavy sigh of relief. ‘She came out of the coma late last night.’

  Gramin showed no reaction, which made Ogarkin frown.

  ‘That’s a major step forward, you know,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Of course!’

  Gramin still looked unimpressed. ‘So much for her physical conditon.’

  Ogarkin became agitated, rolling the tissue up into a tiny ball. He knew what the man was driving at; he just wasn’t sure how to frame his answer.

  ‘She seems to be as whole mentally as when she came in,’ he said at last.

  It won him a sneer. ‘That’s not saying much.’

&nbs
p; ‘It is, comrade, it is! We feared irreversible damage. Not a vegetable, I thank God – the EEG and others tests told us she was safe from that – but we feared a much reduced state.’ The words came spilling out more hurriedly the more sceptical Gramin looked. ‘Physiological damage we wouldn’t be able to do anything about, but now it looks like we’re no worse off than when we started – just her psychiatric condition.’

  ‘Just her psychiatric condition!’

  ‘Please –’ Ogarkin lifted his hands and looked around nervously.

  ‘Can she travel?’

  The question took the professor by surprise. ‘Travel?’

  ‘Some distance. Say overnight by road.’

  ‘I suppose so, but it’s not an idea I’d encourage. She still needs rest and close watching. Her psychotherapy needs to resume as soon as she’s physically strong enough. Where is she going?’

  Gramin looked at him. ‘You’ll find out. What’s keeping this lift?’ He pummelled the button with his knuckle. ‘Is everything in this place useless? Is that what you specialise in, comrade Professor – uselessness?’

  But Ogarkin’s thoughts were elsewhere.

  ‘Travelling. Has he sent for her?’ There were the beginnings of terror in his watery eyes.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Does he know what happened to her – what she did?’ He seemed somehow to underline the ‘she’.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Yet?’

  ‘Well, he’ll find out sooner or later, won’t he? When he sees her for himself. No telling how he’ll take it either. He doesn’t have a very forgiving nature. Maybe you know that.’

  At last the lift arrived. As they stepped inside, Ogarkin moved closer. He wiped his nose again.

  ‘Did you bring me anything?’ It was a desperate whisper. ‘The general said he’d look after me … it was part of our arrangement. For her being here. Didn’t he tell you to bring me something?’

  Gramin was expressionless for a moment, then he nodded. As the lift doors closed, he took a handful of transparent polythene sachets from his pocket. They were partly filled with a fine white powder. The professor’s eyes widened hungrily. Gramin held them up before him for a moment, then dropped them on the floor. Ogarkin fell to his knees and began scooping them up, snuffling all the while. Before he’d collected them all, however, the lift reached its destination, the infirmary floor, and the doors flew open. Ogarkin looked wildly around. The corridor outside was empty but for a stretcher trolley and a corral of rubbish sacks; he returned to gathering up the sachets.

  But as he reached out for the last one, Gramin’s heel descended on the back of his hand. The professor yelped in pain.

  ‘I’ve got a job for you,’ Gramin said. ‘To earn these.’ He kept his foot in position.

  Tears began to roll down Ogarkin’s cheeks, partly from pain, partly from anxiety that someone might appear, but most of all for fear Gramin might take the sachets away again. His fingers were turning a dark red, as if they were filling with blood and might burst. Their throbbing was almost visible.

  ‘What job?’ he gasped.

  ‘Accompany her on her journey. Look after her. That should set your mind at rest for her immediate welfare. And you can explain personally to the general what happened to her. Take my advice – it’s your only chance.’

  Despite his terror at the prospect of having to face Serov, Ogarkin was nodding vigorously; he was ready to agree to anything.

  ‘We leave this afternoon, then. I’ll drive us. It’s a long way but we’ll have a comfortable car – the general’s.’ Gramin thought for a moment and added, ‘It’s not an ambulance, though. Does she need an ambulance?’

  Ogarkin shook his head.

  ‘Good. You can sit in the back with her. That’d be the best idea.’

  He lifted his foot and the professor fell forward and clasped his injured hand to his chest. As Gramin seized the shoulder of his white jacket and hauled him to his feet, however, he remembered to snatch up the last sachet.

  ‘Plenty of that stuff waiting for you when we get there, by the way,’ Gramin remarked. ‘Mountains of it.’

  Some measure of calm was returning to Ogarkin’s eyes. He seemed to find Gramin’s last comment of particular interest.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, still nursing his hand.

  Gramin shoved him out of the lift. ‘Ever heard of a place called Molodechno?’

  *

  Galina dozed for most of the way, curled up under Gramin’s greatcoat on the back seat. Ogarkin dropped off as well sometime after Borodino. Gramin switched on the rear reading light and adjusted the rear-view mirror to keep a check on both of them.

  The roads were bad, once they got outside Moscow. Where wheels had churned the snow to slush, it had frozen into ice, so they made slow progress. Gramin took it just as easy as he had to. In the marshlands beyond Vitebsk they met some pockets of thick, greasy fog, and that slowed them down further.

  It took until the small hours of the following morning before they reached the estate. Ogarkin awoke as they slowed for the guard post, revived by the chill air when Gramin wound down the window to identify himself. The professor rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then gulped at the sight of the machine-pistol barrel that was poking in at him. It withdrew and he blinked stupidly around at the dark forest beyond the floodlights, struggling to get his bearings.

  ‘You don’t need to know where we are,’ Gramin said before he could ask anything. ‘Just somewhere in the hills. Somewhere the general keeps to escape to.’

  ‘Is this where he is now?’ There was an unmistakable quiver in Ogarkin’s voice.

  ‘No. Relax.’

  Some minutes later the fox compound sent up its usual hullabaloo as they passed. Again the professor started in alarm.

  ‘Werewolves,’ Gramin told him. ‘Nothing to worry about. No worse than you’re used to.’

  Sinsky, warned by the guard post that they were on their way, was waiting for them at the door of the great stone house. He and Gramin carried Galina to the bedroom that had been made ready for her. Ogarkin followed, lugging his Gladstone bag full of medicines and equipment. He gawped at the high ceilings and ran his hand like a child over the carved banisters. But his nose started its tricks again, and as they reached the upper floor he vanished into a nearby bathroom for a few minutes, mumbling apologies. Gramin smiled to himself but said nothing. Sinsky stared coldly at the bathroom door.

  Half an hour later they’d eaten a snack of black bread and beetroot soup and were sitting in front of the roaring fire in the dining hall. Gramin poured them a couple of vodkas.

  ‘Absent friends,’ he toasted, and watched as Ogarkin swallowed the measure before knocking back his own. ‘How was your hit?’ He nodded in the general direction of upstairs. ‘In the bathroom.’

  The professor kept his gaze on the floor. ‘I just fall to bits without it, like a puppet with the strings gone.’

  Gramin poured two more vodkas. They emptied the glasses again. Two more. Empty again.

  ‘Back to Moscow tomorrow?’ asked Ogarkin. ‘Today, I mean.’

  Gramin noted with disdain that his speech was slurring already. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh. I told the institute I’d only be gone for a day or so. Still, I suppose a bit longer won’t matter. I expect you want to recharge your batteries before you tackle that drive again.’

  ‘We’re not going back the next day either.’

  Ogarkin’s small red eyes grew concerned. ‘When?’

  Gramin refilled the glasses. ‘A few days, a few weeks – who knows? The general will decide.’

  Ogarkin tried to bluster.

  ‘Shhh, comrade,’ Gramin said reassuringly. ‘You can phone them. Tell them you’re ill. Listen to me – you said the girl needs plenty of watching. Who better than you? You said she needs to start back into her psychotherapy. Well, you know her better than anyone after all these weeks.’

  ‘You weren’t so flattering yesterday.�
��

  ‘I was a little worked up. I was anxious, that’s all. Maybe I was also worrying about how to explain things to the general. He’ll be calling me, you see. Here. It might be tonight, it might be another night. But as we agreed, now you’re here, you can do the explaining.’

  Ogarkin looked scared to death.

  ‘Remember what I promised you?’ Gramin said. Ogarkin shook his head.

  ‘Mountains of the stuff?’ Gramin reminded him. A light came to the professor’s eyes.

  ‘It’s here,’ Gramin whispered. ‘Pure. Ninety-nine point nine per cent. It hasn’t been cut yet. Clouds of paradise. Now do you still want to leave?’

  Ogarkin just stared. His fat tongue came out and licked his lips. He swallowed a quick mouthful of vodka.

  ‘Want to try some?’

  Ogarkin nodded.

  Gramin smiled and knocked back his vodka. For the good professor, time had just taken a back seat.

  39

  London

  Sumner felt himself wilting under Gaunt’s stare. He had hurried in to see him as soon as he’d finished checking the police information that had come to him that morning.

  ‘Are you telling me we’ve got Knight’s description at every port and airport and with every police force in the country, and he’s still somewhere around his home?’

  ‘I think so, Sir Horace.’

  Gaunt banged the office door shut with his toe; Sumner braced himself for the worst. Gaunt crossed to the desk and planted himself on Sumner’s side of it.

  ‘This mental defective – what’s his name? Bowman – how did we come across him?’

  ‘He lives with his father and sister. It was when one of the local coppers was checking with them that Billy spoke up.

  ‘What makes you think we can believe him?’

  ‘His father and sister say he’s reliable on something like this. We talked to his GP as well. He says Billy’s like a six- or seven-year-old. A bit vague on things like time but otherwise dependable enough. Billy knows the whole village and they all know him. He has no other world and he doesn’t make mistakes about it. According to both the GP and the sister, if Billy says he saw someone, then he saw someone.’