Face Me When You Walk Away

by Brian Freemantle

  He panicked easily, thought Josef. His father had definitely been wrong. He felt disloyal making the mental criticism.

  ‘I demand to know what happened,’ said Illinivitch.

  Josef smiled at him, in open defiance, ignoring the statement.

  ‘If there is a complaint,’ he said, ‘any inquiry will clearly show that you both abandoned Nikolai.’

  They were frightened, he knew. That was good.

  *

  Shyly, the girl entered the Kremlin office and stood, down-faced with embarrassment in front of the Minister.

  ‘Don’t be nervous, Sanya,’ soothed Devgeny.

  Still it was impossible for her to talk.

  ‘You did very well,’ congratulated Devgeny. ‘I want you to know that. The authorization for your family to have a flat of their own has gone through today.’

  21

  Josef slept even worse than usual, eventually abandoning the pretence before dawn and sitting looking out over the American capital, waiting impatiently for the day. It was snowing again, with a muffled, hissing sound, whitening everything. The snow had been an enemy in the camp, he remembered. Not because of the cold, which was bad enough, but because it halted movement. The authorities welcomed it and watched, hoping to find tracks that would show them the after-dark communication between the barrack blocks. But he’d beaten them, he reminisced, smiling. Until Medev had begged him not to because of the danger, and even after that, when the man was sick and needed the medicine Josef knew existed in the camp and could be purchased at extortionate prices with the money he made black marketeering, he had ventured out after curfew, a tree branch secured by wire around his waist and trailed, like a rake, so that the slight indentations made by his sack-wrapped feet were erased seconds after he had made them.

  Outside it began to lighten into a grey day. Washington would have its white Christmas. He’d enjoyed Christmasses in America. His father, who could remember the celebrations before the revolution, had allowed the occasion to be recognized. It had been mentioned at the trial, he recalled. On the first or maybe the second day, nearly the whole morning had been taken up by the prosecutor talking about the holiday and present-giving and at first Josef had smiled, unable to see how anything so innocent, even to a country with an atheist dogma, could be made into something so damning. It could be snowing in Moscow, too, he realized. Moscow looked alternative in the snow, he always thought, like a nostalgic old woman wearing her faded wedding-gown.

  Without conscious thought, the idea of defecting suddenly came to him. It would not be difficult, he decided. This early he could slip from the embassy and no one would know. His role with Nikolai had finished. The writer could easily be returned to the Soviet Union without Josef’s guidance. Money would be no problem. Despite the denials to Illinivitch, there were subsidiary accounts in Switzerland and it would probably be possible to clear his American account before they moved against him. He could go south, to Mexico, then hedge-hop through South America. He had enough money available in America to stay there for several months, maybe a year even. La Paz would be pleasant. The height had never worried him. Or Lima. He could easily get lost in Peru. But that would mean abandoning Pamela, who had thought nothing of abandoning him. There had been a women’s camp in the Potma complex, he remembered. Was it Camp 23 or 25? He wasn’t sure. There had been a lot of talk about the women’s camp because the first substitute for sex was to talk about it. They degenerated worse than the men, according to the stories. The long-termers, those who accepted they would never get out, became like animals, actually discarding speech. In the end, even the guards were frightened and wouldn’t go into their enclosure. Food was pushed through hatches until that became too much trouble and the problem was solved by starving them to death. He couldn’t allow Pamela to become an animal, he thought. And to defect would be to become a bad Russian.

  He waited until seven-thirty before going to Nikolai’s room. The writer was awake, the hint of desperation already evident. Wordlessly, Josef handed him the transparent container and looked away while the man attended to himself. He looked dissolute and ill, Josef thought, his skin chalk-white but dirty-looking, despite the custom of two daily showers. His eyes were black-ringed, so completely that it looked almost like some strange make-up, and although he was maintaining his personal cleanliness, he had started to neglect the clothes he had bought with Endelman and of which he had been so proud.

  Nikolai would have to be cured, Josef determined. And it would have to be done as soon as possible. That would mean his being met immediately they arrived in the Russian capital by doctors who could take him to a sanatorium. It would have to be kept from Nikolai, of course. He couldn’t know until the moment of arrival.

  There had to be goodbyes, Josef realized. He had hardly spoken to Blyne at the reception and he still had to settle his outstanding debt to Endelman. He left Nikolai packing and instructed the ambassador’s secretary that he wanted to see Vladimirov at eleven o’clock, then drove to the Hay Adams. The publisher was already packed, Josef saw. There was coffee on a side-table and Blyne poured.

  ‘So,’ said the publisher, ‘it’s goodbye.’

  Josef nodded.

  ‘I can’t pretend I enjoyed it,’ said Blyne. ‘But it’s been a success publicly. No one can remember a subscription like there’s been for this book. The initial print for the book club is one million. Currently, the paperback bidding is four million dollars.’

  Josef supposed he should be interested in the figure. He had forgotten the eventual financial reward. Perhaps, he thought, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

  ‘It’ll go higher,’ predicted Blyne. ‘We’re letting them create their own hysteria.’

  ‘We’ve been extraordinarily lucky,’ said Josef. A great fatigue seemed to be engulfing him.

  ‘Matheson is staying, by the way,’ added Blyne.

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Josef, sincerely.

  There was silence between them. They were encountering that odd, embarrassed etiquette people always stumble over before parting.

  ‘I’m putting Nikolai under treatment as soon as I get back to Russia,’ said Josef.

  ‘Good,’ said Blyne, shortly. Then he added, ‘How is this going to affect you personally?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Josef.

  Blyne detected the depth of Josef’s doubt.

  ‘If there’s another occasion …’ he began, awkwardly. He stopped, then tried again. ‘I mean, if there’s another chance of publishing something from the Soviet Union …’

  ‘I’ll remember the promise I made in Vienna,’ said Josef.

  ‘I hope it works out. Personally, I mean.’

  ‘Thanks. You had a letter,’ reminded Josef. ‘From Moscow, after you sought permission for Endelman to accompany me.’

  Blyne frowned, trying to remember.

  ‘Yes,’ said the publisher, vaguely.

  ‘Have you still got it?’

  The publisher went to his briefcase and leafed through the papers there. He finally extracted a single sheet.

  ‘May I have it?’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Blyne.

  Again the conversation lapsed.

  ‘Perhaps we could keep in touch,’ offered the publisher, like a holiday acquaintance promising to exchange letters.

  ‘Yes,’ said Josef. Both recognized the emptiness of the gesture. Josef stood up, wanting to end the meeting, and offered his hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, with feeling. ‘Without you and Matheson, what happened in New York would have been a disaster.’

  ‘I had as much to lose as you,’ pointed out Blyne.

  Endelman was waiting in his room overlooking the White House, on the floor above that which Blyne had occupied.

  ‘Honouring your debt, Josef?’ he asked. The early diffidence masked a very unpleasant man, decided Josef.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Russian.

  ‘How’s Nikolai?’ smiled the photographer. At that moment Josef f
elt more dislike for the man than ever before.

  ‘About the same as any heroin addict needing at least two fixes a day,’ replied the Russian.

  ‘Poor Nikolai. You know, he actually insisted the first time? Kept on about the need to experience everything. But he was frightened of the injection. They often are, in the beginning. I had to give it to him.’

  The man spoke boastfully. He was very proud of what he had done, decided Josef. The Russian handed over five one-hundred-dollar bills.

  ‘Thank you,’ smirked Endelman.

  ‘You might as well have this,’ said Josef unexpectedly.

  The photographer looked at the envelope.

  ‘I’m not going through Canada carrying heroin,’ explained Josef. ‘I’m going to give Nikolai an injection just before we leave so that he can last the trip. As soon as we get to Moscow, I’m putting him under treatment.’

  Endelman accepted the packet. He had only recently had an injection himself, Josef knew. His pupils were dilated and several times he had smiled for no reason.

  ‘Well, it’s goodbye then,’ said Endelman. He stood up and extended his hand. Josef looked at it, turned and left the room without speaking. As he closed the door, he heard Endelman laughing.

  Vladimirov was waiting for him alone in the study when he returned to the embassy. He was smiling and looked very confident.

  ‘Comrade Illinivitch has decided not to return with you.’

  Josef frowned, trying to assess the significance. The man obviously felt there was some advantage in remaining and that could only be to obtain something harmful to be used against him.

  Josef’s mind slipped sideways. He had made it quite clear to Illinivitch that any move against Devgeny had failed. It was obvious there would be an inquiry immediately he returned. Surely the deputy Minister, fearing that he would now be purged, hadn’t decided to defect? He couldn’t recall anyone of Illinivitch’s rank going across. And he personally could benefit, he decided. He had consistently opposed the man and been seen to do so. And Devgeny would have been responsible for allowing Illinivitch to come to the West. The man’s defection, Josef decided, would be very good. It was the second time the thought of defection had arisen that day, he realized.

  ‘When is he returning?’ he probed.

  The ambassador gestured uncertainly.

  ‘A day or two. Maybe longer.’

  ‘Has Moscow approved?’ asked Josef, knowing the question would offend.

  ‘Of course,’ said Vladimirov, sharply. ‘And such a question is hardly correct, coming from you.’

  ‘Vladimirov,’ said Josef, carefully calculating the weariness of his voice. ‘There is a great deal of this tour about which you know nothing. Please don’t challenge me.’

  Josef wondered who hated him more, Devgeny or Illiuivitcli or Vladimirov.

  ‘I want something done in advance of my return,’ resumed Josef. He was almost over-stressing the imperious attitude, he realized. ‘I have decided that Nikolai should be placed under immediate hospital treatment. I want a message sent to Moscow.’

  ‘Full reports have already been sent about the man’s addiction,’ said Vladimirov.

  ‘I’ve no doubt of that,’ said Josef. ‘Just do as I say. I want an ambulance to meet me when I get to Sheremetyevo.’

  He stood, preparing to leave the room.

  ‘Wait, Bultova,’ commanded the other man.

  Josef turned.

  ‘I feel we will be seeing each other again very shortly,’ said Vladimirov.

  ‘Yes,’ said Josef, without the fear the ambassador had tried to engender. ‘I’m sure we will.’

  He walked from the room, leaving Vladimirov sitting at his desk, blank-faced with doubt.

  Josef had timed their trip meticulously. Over the days, he had carefully calculated how long Nikolai’s injections lasted, and assessed that the injection just before they left the embassy would be sufficient until they reached Moscow. As a precaution he still had one envelope left, despite what he had told Endelman. He was travelling on a diplomatic passport so there would be no difficulties with customs in Montreal, particularly as they would be in transit.

  Nikolai spent the initial stages of the trip to Canada in the familiar withdrawn state that followed his injection. In Montreal Josef refused an airport press-conference and they spent forty minutes in a V.I.P. lounge. They were the first to go out to the Ilyushin. The captain walked with them, settling them into a specially curtained section of the aircraft. Nikolai’s depression seemed to be increasing now they were finally going home.

  ‘It’s going to be very different, isn’t it Josef?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the negotiator.

  ‘I’ve done nothing about a sequel to Walk Softly on a Lonely Day.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I haven’t even got an idea.’

  ‘It’ll come,’ Josef encouraged.

  ‘Not in Moscow, it won’t,’ disagreed the writer. ‘The place presses down on me. I can’t think properly there.’

  After a while, Nikolai lapsed into a snuffling, uncertain sleep, occasionally whimpering, like someone in pain. The negotiator ordered vodka and sipped it, reflectively. How accurate would Nikolai’s prediction be, he wondered, staring into the glass. Things would be different, he decided. Very different. He shivered, unconsciously, and the stewardess misunderstood and handed him a blanket. He accepted it, rather than attempt an explanation. December was the worst time in the camps. It was too cold for any outside work, even though a new commandant would occasionally try, abandoning it only when the number of men who died reached a level unacceptable even there. The cold became a physical pain, gouging into the body and creating a perpetual numbing ache. Everyone slept bent into the person next to them, trying to steal some warmth. A blanket could cost twenty roubles and the barrack trustee had to be bribed a rouble a day to ensure it wasn’t immediately stolen. It always was, of course. Josef had knowingly re-purchased the same piece of coarse material three times during the second winter until, in the end, it had become so foul covering his father, who was incontinent by then, lying constantly in his own, embarrassed filth, that it became unstealable. He fingered the covering the stewardess had handed him, appreciating its thickness. A man could establish the financial basis for several years in black-market trading in Potma with one blanket like this, he thought. He checked his watch. Two roubles? Surely more than that now. Any camp guard would surely pay six. From the time he realized that they would be over Russia, Nikolai was next to the window and Josef strained, looking out over him. They had passed through the time zone and it was dark outside the aircraft. They would be down there, somewhere, he thought, dotted along the winding river like an infectious disease, collection places for the dissenters and the political malcontents or just the plain unfortunates who had become of so little consequence that the camps they occupied were not thought important enough to justify names, just numbers. Part of a prisoner’s number identified the camp to which he belonged. It took only a short time to realize that the number was more important than your name, because you were always summoned by your number and to mistake it or ignore it meant punishment. The name ceased to be important, which was part of the psychology. People who accepted themselves as ciphers behaved like ciphers, never creating trouble.

  He felt the aircraft begin to lose height and Nikolai stirred. Another injection would not be necessary, Josef thought gratefully, certainly not while Nikolai was under his control. He quickly got up and locked himself inside the cramped lavatory, taking the remaining envelope from his pocket. He dropped it into the lavatory bowl, then watched it disappear in a swirl of disinfectant water. When he returned to his seat, Nikolai was shivering and staring around the aircraft. He made no greeting as Josef sat down.

  ‘I feel awful,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What am I going to do about it … you know, now I’m back?’

  Josef was surprised the question had been so l
ong coming.

  ‘It will be all right,’ he said, vaguely. ‘I’ll arrange something.’

  They were below the clouds now and even though there was no moon, Josef could detect the reflection of whiteness. So it had snowed. The wheels grabbed at that moment of landing when airline passengers hold their breath, snatched again and then the plane settled on the runway.

  ‘We’re home,’ said Nikolai. He sounded very sad.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Josef, with equal reluctance.

  The steward beckoned Josef forward immediately the plane came to a stop and he edged into the cramped flightdeck. The pilot gestured out through the port side.

  ‘Control tower has just told me the ambulance is waiting,’ he said. Was there censure in his voice? Probably not. There was no reason why there should be. He was becoming oversensitive, which was stupid.

  ‘Does he know?’ asked the captain, jerking his head back towards where Nikolai was sitting.

  ‘Not unless he sees it out of the window.’

  ‘He’s on the wrong side.’

  He returned to the seat and Nikolai smiled up at him, a grateful expression.

  ‘Thank you, Josef,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For not abandoning me.’

  Josef detected the sound of the disembarkation ramp locking into the aircraft.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘It’s time to go.’

  It had begun to snow, very lightly, but the wind was screeching across the tarmac, grabbing it in handfuls and throwing it into their faces. Nikolai hunched into his topcoat and it wasn’t until he got to the bottom of the steps that he focused and saw there was no welcoming party. He turned, squinting, as the snow stung at his face, seeking an explanation. Three men emerged from the shelter of the ambulance, grey and nondescript, bent forward for protection. Nikolai stared at them, at first unaware they were anything to do with him. Then he saw they were coming directly towards him and came back to the negotiator.

  ‘What is it Josef …?’ he said. The words were picked up and jostled by the wind, so that it was difficult for Josef to hear them.