by Craig Thomas
'I — see.'
'Well, Major, I'll be off now.' He raised his hand in salute, turned, and walked off down the street. Vorontsyev watched him go, then bent to look in at the driver.
'Did you get that?'
'Sir.' The driver's eyes bulged comically.
'Send it, then. "Alpha" has met with an accident. Then we go in.'
The driver spoke into the mike, then listened while Vorontsyev, picking up a torch from the rear seat, flashed it in the direction of two cars parked well down the street. Doors opened, and overcoated figures got out, moved down the street towards him. The driver said, 'Sir — another message. "Apostles One, Two and Seven all eliminated."'
'Hell — is it really only the dream of a few old men — is that all we have to worry about?' He banged his hand absently on the window-ledge of the car. It seemed impossible. It could not be easy, not as easy as that. Kill some old men, and stop a war?
He thought about Kutuzov. The unknown face; the mystery man. Unless he was stopped, then the Kremlin regime, the entire Politburo perhaps — certainly the KGB — would be ousted.
One old man, with a dream of passion. If he wasn't found, then he would succeed. Again, he punched the side of the car with his fist.
'Let's go.' he said.
The other four men were opposite them now, crossing the frost-rimed road. Four heavy dark shapes. The driver shut his door quietly. Vorontsyev looked at them. The tiredness of being awake, or only fitfully dozing, all night was now only slight smudging beneath their eyes. Their faces were tight with tension.
'Right. You know what to do,' Vorontsyev said, 'You two to the back window you spotted earlier — break in if it doesn't give in ten seconds. Understand?' They nodded. 'The rest of you, the front with me. We'll have to break in, and quickly. You two take the first floor rooms, you downstairs…' He addressed the driver with this remark. 'Be careful. I don't know who, or what, is in there — except that you can bet a bloody alarm will go off as soon as we break in.' One of the men grinned. 'But we're experts. We know what to expect. You try to hold, not kill.' He paused for a moment, then: 'But you kill rather than be killed. Understood?'
He looked at each face in turn. Each man nodded. Then he walked ahead of them, briskly, towards the house. Their footsteps behind him seemed to clatter on the frosty pavement He watched the curtained, blind windows as carefully as he could.
Nothing seemed to be awake, or moving, in the house. There appeared to be no duty-staff. Which would be consistent with the house being only an occasional office for the KGB. And, he thought, perhaps consistent with the timing of the Group 1917 and Finland Station operations. If they were only a day away, then there was little need to secure a safe house like this one.
He suddenly wondered whether the Englishman was still alive. His interest, and importance, must surely have passed?
The house was surrounded by a high, dark hedge, behind which was a short gravel drive. They kept to the lawns that flanked it, their feet crunching through the stiff grass, their trouser-bottoms wetted by the frost. Still the house seemed empty, or dead. Vorontsyev pulled the Stechkin from his holster — he had exchanged the Makarov for the heavier gun with the larger clip in Novosibirsk.
They paused, of one mind, at the edge of the lawn. The gravel drive surrounded the house like a stony moat. Vorontsyev motioned the two men detailed to the back of the house to move off. They trod with comic stealth and lightness along the gravel drive as it curved to the rear of the house. Vorontsyev studied the windows at the front of the house, as he had done earlier in the night. The door was stout, but the downstairs windows were not barred. The Leningrad office must have decided not to draw attention to the house by such methods of increasing security. Fortunately.
They crossed the scuffling little space of the gravel, and gathered in a little knot by the window, a large bay whose sill was at the level of their heads.
Vorontsyev said; 'Office, or bedroom, or lounge?'
'Probably lounge or rest-room, sir,' one of them volunteered — the driver.
'Agreed. Up on the sill — have a look at the catch.' As he was helped up on to the sill, Vorontsyev inspected the window frame. Not the original, but a standard wooden frame; sash-cord. 'Well?' he said, looking up.
'It's wired, sir.'
'Can you open it quickly if you smash the window?'
'Yes, sir.'
Vorontsyev looked at his watch. Thirty seconds for them to reach the back window they had chosen, then ten seconds. He waited, then: 'Smash it!'
The driver punched his gloved fist through the pane of glass, just above the catch. The noise was horribly loud in the cold air. Then he said, 'Up and away, boys!' Two of them, Vorontsyev and another man, heaved at the window, and it slid up protestingly. The driver dropped into the room, gun out, and pulled back one curtain.
Vorontsyev clambered over the sill, then turned to help the last man in. There was sufficient light for them to see the door in the far wall. Only then, when they were all inside, did Vorontsyev notice the alarm ringing deep in the house somewhere. It galvanised him.
'Let's go!'
He ran across the room — a frail-looking chair with spindly, glossy legs spun out of his way as his overcoat caught it. He opened the door, and peered out. A big hallway, wide stairs leading up into the darkness. There was a gleam of light, probably coming from under a door, up on the first floor. He prodded the two detailed men, and they took the stairs in a run. The light increased, as if a door had been opened. A voice called out.
Vorontsyev heard 'Hold it, friend!' No more than that. No shooting, yet. The instruction 'Watch him!' then more footsteps.
The driver had crossed the hallway with its chequered tiles, and was opening the door of a room. His head ducked round the door, then he was back out.
'Nothing,' he called, and set off towards the rear of the house.
A shot from what must be the second floor — but towards the rear of the house. The back stairs, the old servants' stairs probably, which meant the two men had broken in and made for the second floor.
Where was the door to the cellars? For a moment, the size of the house defeated him. Then he realised he should have entered at the back of the house. Only the servants would have needed to enter the cellars — and the door would be in the kitchens. No — ground floor reception rooms here, left and right, that door to the kitchens, butler's pantry — and cellars. He followed the direction taken by the driver.
The body thudded on the lowest stairs, and rolled almost gently on to the tiled floor. Dark overcoat, fair hair, hidden, broken face. One of the two men from the second floor search. Someone had thrown him over. He heard faint shots, and a distant cry.
He was losing impetus, he realised. How many seconds had now passed? He burst through the door at the rear of the staircase, and stumbled down three steps, into the huge, gloomy kitchen. A door at the other end of the room was open — the kitchen was some kind of dining-room as well, it appeared. Scraps of food on a table, washing-up in an old sink. Dirty plates. There was no sign of the driver.
He opened two cupboards before he found the door to the cellars. He should have noticed the light beneath the door. It was on, showing the wooden steps leading down. He hesitated, then stepped on to the topmost stair.
A scuffle of footsteps, a muttered voice, sharp with feverish command. He went down the steps quickly. They twisted halfway, almost doubling back. A man in civilian clothes, but carrying an army rifle, was facing him in front of an open door. There was a narrow corridor behind him, and rows of metal doors. And the atmosphere of a prison where once there had been racks and bins of wine.
He fired before the man had time to challenge him. He had been asleep, was leadenly awakening still, for the alarm sounded only as a muffled buzz down there. He fell against the door, a stupid open-mouthed look on his face.
Vorontsyev was still at the bottom of the steps when he saw the other man, a thick dressing-gown tied with a cord, his grey
ing hair ruffled from sleep. He was opening one of the doors, and there was a gun in his hand.
'Halt, or I fire!' Vorontsyev snapped, and the man's head lifted with a jerk, as if he had not noticed the gunshot that had killed the guard.
Somewhere in the house, two more shots. They seemed to startle the man in the dressing-gown as much as Vorontsyev's order. He had a bunch of heavy keys in his right hand, which he was using to open the door, and the gun was evidently awkward in his left hand. Vorontsyev watched the gun, and then the right hand turned the key in the lock, and the man's body began to disappear into the cell he had opened. Vorontsyev fired twice, but missed.
He ran. The pain in his toes came back. He had forgotten the frostbite, even when he patrolled the street outside during the night. A dull ache he gave none of his attention to. Now these few steps hurt. He cannoned off the wall, opposite the open cell door, and then saw the man in the dressing-gown lying by the wall, the gun waveringly pointed at something inside the cell.
Vorontsyev kicked out at the wrist, and the gun flew up and away. The man turned to look at him, evidently afraid now that his concentration on killing the Englishman had vanished. And the fear turned to pain. There was a dark stain spreading across his shoulder; he must have been hit by a lucky ricochet.
Vorontsyev dragged at the collar of the dressing-gown, and the man winced with pain. Novetlyn, having failed in his attempt to kill Folley, realising that it could only be a break-in to rescue him — somehow the Centre knew about Folley — was now desperate to sink into unconsciousness. His shoulder ached crazily, more than any wound had any right to, and he moaned aloud as he was pulled backwards out of the cell. The image of Folley heaped in a foetal plea on his filthy cot disappeared. As the man who had shot him tried to jerk him to his feet, Novetlyn passed out.
Vorontsyev let the body drop again to the floor. The man had passed out; and more, he'd given up trying. Vorontsyev knew the look. The wound would keep him out of the game. He stepped over the still form, into the cell.
Even though the door of the cell had been open for more than a minute, the stench of urine and body dirt assailed Vorontsyev almost tangibly. In a corner, perhaps ten feet from the door, something was crouched on a narrow cot, a blanket wrapped around it. Vorontsyev could hear the chatter of teeth. Cold or terror — or both.
He felt a lurch of what might have been pity, or disappointment. The man on the cot had evidently been broken. The body suggested it — abject, displayed almost as if it had been physically broken, and poorly reassembled. He had seen men, and women, crouching like this in the Lubyanka — before he went to SID. Since then, he had never visited the prison complex behind the Centre in Dzerzhinsky Street.
'Who is it — who is it?' A querulous voice, speaking English. Yes, he had been broken. No cover now, nothing but a pleading not to be hurt or questioned any more. Vorontsyev crossed to the cot.
The Englishman's shirt was filthy. He had urinated in his trousers more than once. Vorontsyev, in appalled fascination, lifted the thin blanket. The man's feet were bare and white — where they weren't filthy. A white globe of a face looked up at him with an idiot's stare. The fair hair was matted. A hand was held out to him; perhaps in supplication, or to ward off some unknown terror. Vorontsyev swallowed, gagging on the stench.
'I've told you everything!' the voice said, querulous, old, ashamed. The head was already hanging, admitting the failure, prepared to answer more questions.
'I've come to help you,' Vorontsyev said softly.
The head stayed still, but he heard the Englishman mutter, 'He said that.'
Vorontsyev understood. His interrogator; perhaps the man outside the door. He said, 'I shot him. Do you hear me — I shot him. I've come to help you.' Vorontsyev spoke in English, with a heavy accent, which he cursed silently as if it was the only barrier now between them. Folley looked up. His eyes tried to focus.
'Not English,' he said.
'No — I'm a Russian.' Folley cringed. 'But I have come to help!' His voice was earnest. He moved a step nearer, and the Englishman backed against the wall behind the cot, the blanket held under his chin in both hands, as if to protect nakedness; or to comfort, child-like.
Vorontsyev knew he was using the methods of a policeman. He could not be simply human, or humane, towards this man, because he needed information from him. Closing his mouth, breathing shallowly through his nostrils — the stench was vile — he sat on the edge of the cot, and put away the Stechkin. Then he touched the man's leg; the flesh seemed to crawl under the touch.
The Englishman tried to make himself as small on the cot as possible, shrinking from contact. Vorontsyev calculated that the moment was right, then said, 'I have come to take you to safety. It will have to be the United States Consulate, I am afraid, because your government maintains no official presence here — nor is there an SIS unit here, as far as I know.' He spoke conversationally, lightly. All the time his hand patted the Englishman's leg, stroking gently much as he would have done to a dog or a cat, to still its fear.
The Englishman was little better than an animal — worse, if the capacity to keep oneself clean was taken into account. Vorontsyev could see that he hadn't been beaten — if he had, then the beating was a time ago. This man had been broken by isolation — by the utter loneliness he had suffered.
Vorontsyev had seen it work before. The collapse of the will, crumbling like stale cake in the pressure of fingers. Because the fingers that held him were omnipotent, omnipresent — and no help would come. That was how it was done.
Just to find out what the West knew about Finland Station. Vorontsyev shrugged. The Englishman was having difficulty with what he had heard. Vorontsyev, easing as much gentleness as possible into his voice, repeated himself.
'The United States Consulate — I will take you there, as soon as you are ready to go.'
And then he wondered, as the man moved, seeming to release a more gagging odour from his armpits or crotch. Perhaps he had been unable to control his bowels, realising that he might be safe. Beyond hope, safe. Wondered.
What would he do with this Englishman?
'You — you… Why?' Folley found it difficult to speak, as if his voice had gone rusty; or he had not wanted to use it because of the things it had said, confessed, revealed. He tried to look at the Russian, read what was in his mind in the white mirror of the face. He couldn't tell — did not trust…
Vorontsyev saw the distrust, riddled deep in the man. Yet, thankfully, he saw the mounting hope; a quiver to the lips that was not cold. He could not help hoping — beyond shame, un-worthiness, despair. He would be feeling all those things, or felt them already. But he could not help hoping.
His interrogators had never offered him hope. They had used despair. Therefore, the weapon of hope was his.
'Yes, my friend. Frankly, you are an embarrassment to my government. You were captured on neutral territory — your government knows you are alive.' Disbelief was swept away by gratitude. Vorontsyev breathed a sigh of relief. The Englishman could not accept him as an ally — but now he could believe in him because he spoke of others knowing, his own government, the people who had sent him. He had not been abandoned, after all.
Vorontsyev had no idea whether the British knew this man was alive; it did not matter. It served. He said, 'I am to take you directly to the United States Consulate. I have a car outside. You will make yourself ready to go, just as soon as you have helped me a little.'
The flash of fear again, returning like a stain ineffectively erased; and cunning, a re-adoption of an earlier self, the early days of his interrogation. Vorontsyev guessed at the dazed, damaged mind of the Englishman. He was busily erasing his abject defeat, his failure. Now, he knew his friends were working for his release, he only had to hold out. He had told them nothing. He would tell them nothing.
Vorontsyev said, 'I know you told them nothing, my friend. What I want to know is who they were. That is all. Nothing about you. Only about who came here.
They were traitors, you understand — understand? Traitors. That is why they hurt you.'
He stroked at the man's leg still, comforting, lulling him. Then, on an impulse, he lifted the hand, and held it out to Folley. There was a long moment, and then the Englishman grabbed at the hand, pressing it to his face, bending the head to do so. Vorontsyev felt the stubble, and the filthy hair on the back of his hand. He prevented himself from shuddering.
Then Folley looked up. 'Traitors?' he said suspiciously, as if he had been accused.
'Of course! Why else were they in Finland? My government does not wish a war at this time. A — conspiracy in the Army. That is why you were questioned by Army men — uh?' Folley nodded. Vorontsyev had guessed luckily — no, not so luckily. It was likely that GRU would handle Folley. 'What is your name — don't tell me if you don't want to!'
'Alan,' Folley said after a while. The hand was still against his cheek. No one had touched him, not since he was beaten. Perhaps even the guards had avoided any physical contact. Touch-deprivation. It was an accustomed technique, one of the devices of alienation. Perhaps this man, Alan, had begun to doubt he had a physical shape any more. Had begun pathetically touching his body in the dark, to be certain. And revolted by his own filthiness, become even more desperate.
'Alan. Mine is Alexei.' He gripped Folley's weak hand more tightly. He felt wetness on the back of his hand. Folley was crying silently. Stifling impatience, and distaste, he reached out with his other hand and stroked the matted, greasy hair. Folley moaned like a lover, and leant against Vorontsyev.
The driver came through the door, and stopped, mouth open, as he saw in the gathering light from the tiny high grille in the wall, Vorontsyev and the prisoner in each other's arms. Vorontsyev waved him out with a flip of his hand, and the driver, winking knowingly and irreverently, mouthed his satisfactory status report. Then he went out. Folley did not appear to have heard his approach.