Ivan runs across the street and enters the deserted building. It is cold and damp inside, and smells of rotting vegetation and excrement.
‘What are you doing here? Go away.’ The tone is aggressive, commanding.
‘They’re cutting off your retreat,’ Ivan says. ‘I’ve come to help you.’
‘I don’t need any help.’ The defiance of the would-be hero.
‘You won’t get out alive on your own.’
As if to support his statement, more stones are thrown, this time from a different angle. The Whites are growing in confidence. Ivan and his would-be ally duck for safety behind the wall.
‘I don’t need you. I can defeat them on my own.’
The Red is filling his pockets with the remains of the stones that have been thrown at him. More jeers come from the other side, closer now: they are becoming bolder knowing the odds are stacked in their favour.
‘Don’t try it,’ Ivan begs, but it is too late. Red emerges from the shelter of the wall to race towards the enemy position in a display of insane courage, hurling stones as fast as he can. He is halfway across when he is hit, a large missile striking him on the temple. Red falls. The missiles stop. The Whites emerge from behind their defences. Red doesn’t move.
Ivan runs out. Red is lying on his side, unconscious, blood pouring from the wound, discolouring the stones. He kneels down and puts his hand on Red’s neck. He can feel something. He is alive still.
‘Stop,’ he shouts. ‘Stop fighting. He’s badly hurt.’
The Whites come forward, fearing a trick. Ivan picks up Red in his arms. He is heavier than he imagines but he has done it now, there is no going back.
‘Where does he live?’ he asks. ‘We’ve got to get him home. He may die.’
‘I’ll take you there,’ the leader of the Whites says.
Stumbling under Red’s weight, Ivan carries his wounded comrade across the battlefield and behind the lines. Across a street, down another, through an alley, up some steps, into a hallway, up the stairs. Red’s parents live in a dormitory in Old Arbat. A door opens, a woman screams, a bearded man in glasses appears.
‘What’s happened?’
‘He’s had an accident,’ Ivan says. ‘He’s been hurt.’
Red is taken from his arms by his father and laid gently on a bed. His mother gets a bowl of water and a towel and bathes her son’s head. Ivan can hear Red murmuring dazedly in reply to his mother’s questions.
‘Did you do this to him?’ the father asks Ivan.
‘No, sir.’
‘He rescued him,’ the White leader says. ‘He carried him home. I helped him because I knew where he lived.’
‘What happened?’
‘We were talking,’ Ivan says. ‘Some boys appeared. They attacked us with stones. Your son was hit. We brought him home as quickly as we could.’
He turns to see that he is alone. The White leader has disappeared.
‘He was on the other side, I take it?’
‘Yes.’ Ivan hangs his head.
‘You look pale,’ the father says. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘Something to eat, please,’ Ivan says.
The meal that he eats alone in the kitchen is the first of many over the years.
That is how Ivan came to have a roof over his head, and to become like a son to Boris Chernevenko.
7
1
Outside, the rain hammered down in First Court. Marion Blackwell could hear water gushing from an overflowing gutter. In the distance there was a long, low growl of thunder. It was early afternoon but already the room was dark.
‘In the face of this deliberate act of provocation,’ Michael Scott said, ‘which has the handprint of the Soviet leadership all over it, I can see no good reason for any debate. Berlin’s visit must be cancelled. Surely we can’t disagree on that?’
He looked expectantly round the table. For a moment no one spoke. The sound of the rain filled the room.
‘I disagree for one,’ Marion replied. ‘I think the present crisis makes it even more essential that we go ahead with the visit.’
‘Given the misery the Berlin Wall has already generated, and the threat it poses to all our futures, I find your response hard to fathom.’ Scott’s mockery was undisguised. ‘Perhaps you could elaborate on your reasoning.’
How hard it was to keep her composure before Michael Scott’s incessant provocation! Did he oppose her because she was a woman? Or was there some deeper reason – as if the question of her gender wasn’t deep enough? If she was to keep alive the prospect of Andrei Berlin’s visit, she had to resist all Scott’s attempts to unsettle her.
‘The political tension created by the building of the wall is nothing to do with Andrei Berlin. Therefore why should he be made to suffer because of it?’
‘Nothing to do with Andrei Berlin?’ Scott repeated her phrase slowly, as if a careful repetition would increase his understanding of it. He looked perplexed. ‘Am I not right in saying that Berlin is a citizen of the Soviet Union?’
‘Of course he is.’
‘Then by definition, in an unfree society, he must support the government, right or wrong. Surely we cannot come to blows over that, can we?’
He stared at Marion, daring her to disagree. She said nothing.
‘In which case, I don’t want to sit down in my own house to listen to a man whose government gave the instruction to build this terrible wall. I don’t imagine there is more than a handful in this university who would not endorse that sentiment.’
‘How do you know he doesn’t want to use his visit here as an opportunity to condemn what his government has done?’ She knew at once she should have said nothing. Her naive response revealed the poverty of her arguments in defence of the visit, and she was sure Michael Scott would spot that. She was letting her anger get the better of her.
Scott laughed. ‘When you defend Berlin’s appearance here on the grounds that he might want to use the occasion to act independently, you’re allowing yourself to be manipulated by the Soviets into defending their cause, which is what Berlin will certainly do when he comes here, at least he will if he wants to return home and carry on as before. You seem to forget, Marion, that altruism does not exist in the Soviet Union. Every word, every act has a single purpose: to push the Soviets ever further towards their goal of so-called socialist domination. As a Soviet citizen, it is inevitable that Berlin is tarred with the same brush. Whatever you may think, he is their creature and therefore inevitably hostile to us. His presence could be seen as a potential danger.’
‘So your assumption is, he’s coming over here as an apologist for this wretched wall?’ Marion hoped that she was matching Michael Scott’s aggression with her own.
‘How can I possibly know? I’m not privy to the Politburo’s deliberations. But I am sure that Berlin’s influence cannot be other than malign. That is why I am asking this committee to have the courage to rescind our invitation. At a time like this, we cannot have such a man here as our guest. His presence among us would be intolerable.’
The rain had eased and the torrent from the overflowing drainpipe had diminished to a trickle. It was still dark. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the room, and was followed by a closer rumble of thunder.
‘What Michael says may be true, but I hardly think it matters,’ Peter Chadwick said. ‘The present situation – the building of this wretched wall – is abhorrent to all of us but it is irrelevant to the question Michael is asking us to consider. If we withdraw Berlin’s invitation, we risk being seen to act politically. At worst, the interpretation could be that we are under the Government’s influence. There is a precious tradition in this university of independence of mind and judgement. We must be careful not to jeopardise that. We offered an invitation to Berlin because we wanted to listen to what he had to say. I see no reason whatever for changing our minds. The same reasoning applies now as it did then. Our task in this crisis is to hold our nerve.’
/>
‘You’re looking very thoughtful, Bill. Where do you stand?’ The chairman was determined to test the strength of Michael Scott’s support.
Gant’s face was drained and pale, his shoulders hunched. Marion had met him on their way into the building, and she’d been shocked by his appearance. The news wasn’t good, he’d told her. Jenny had tried to kill herself on two occasions in the last week, and was now under sedation at Fulbourn. The crisis had clearly pushed him to the end of his reserves. She had felt sorry for him and squeezed his hand.
‘I think Peter Chadwick’s right,’ Gant said. ‘We’re committed to Berlin’s visit. It’s too late to back down now. We must show our independence of mind and resist all influences to the contrary.’
Bill was deserting Michael Scott. It was unexpected but she welcomed it. A sudden thought struck her. Was Bill changing sides because he imagined that by doing so he could win her back? Surely he couldn’t have read more into her gesture of sympathy than she had intended?
‘Has there been any pressure from the Government for us to change our mind?’ the chairman asked.
‘None that I know of,’ Marion replied. ‘We’ve heard nothing from the Home Office, either officially or unofficially.’
‘Nor will we,’ Scott said with weary authority. ‘Whitehall won’t interfere. That’s not their way. They will leave the decision to us. That said,’ here he paused for effect, looking round the table, ‘my sources tell me that they do expect us to withdraw the invitation. If we don’t, we could be regarded as “unsound”, and that could lead to limitations on our freedom in future. It’s a dangerous game we’re playing here, and the stakes are higher than I suspect some of us realise.’
It was a threat without teeth because he’d lost the support he needed. Bill’s defection put Michael Scott in a minority. It was too late to use scare tactics to try to change minds. There wasn’t even a need to put Michael Scott’s objection to the vote. He’d failed to command a majority. Berlin’s visit would have to go ahead. That wouldn’t be the end of Michael’s objections – she must expect a backlash of some kind – but it was a significant victory none the less. She felt pleased with herself. The storm had passed without damage.
2
At first glance, the back-projected image looks like a child’s drawing, a large spherical object with horns, a huge steel mine made not to float in water but to fly in space.
‘This is our artist’s impression of the latest Soviet weapon of war,’ Pountney says to the camera, ‘the satellite they claim can fire nuclear missiles from space. It is, apparently, invulnerable to any counterweapon the West may possess. We have neither the missiles nor the artillery to shoot it down.’
He points to the sphere. ‘We estimate that, to have put such a weapon into orbit, the Soviets will have needed a rocket at least twice as powerful as the one that in April lifted Gagarin into space. The question is, do they have such a rocket?’
Behind him, the slide of the satellite is replaced by a blurred photograph of a Soviet rocket held in its gantry. ‘What you see behind me is Gagarin’s rocket, itself a huge machine, on the launch pad at Baikonur, the Soviet Cosmodrome. We know the Soviets have now built the largest rocket in the world. It is the brainchild of the man who inspires and guides the highly successful Soviet space programme, Professor Radin. We also now know that last May it exploded on the launch pad before lift-off, with devastating consequences. News of this disaster has only recently come to light, but we know it has been a severe setback to Soviet ambitions. What we don’t know is whether they have solved the reasons for the explosion and built a new rocket. They certainly have the ability to do so.’
The photograph of Baikonur is replaced by a drawing in cross-section of the satellite. Pountney points at different sections of the drawing. ‘Here is where our experts think the navigational equipment might be housed. These hornlike projections are the retro-rockets that correct the satellite’s trajectory once it has achieved orbit. Here are the storage zones for the payload of four nuclear intercontinental missiles, each of which carries its own navigational equipment in the nose cone.’
The lighting in the studio dims. The image of the satellite fades. Pountney walks towards the camera. He is no longer the instructor giving details at a seminar, he is now the seer foretelling doom. ‘It is worrying enough to describe such a terrible weapon, against which we appear to have no defence. But there is another aspect, which is equally terrifying. Soviet missiles are notoriously inaccurate. While it is entirely reasonable to speculate that Professor Radin may have solved the problem of lifting this dreadful weapon of war into space, it is hard to see how the Soviets will have solved the problem of how to make their missiles hit their target. That, perhaps, is where the greatest danger lies. Aim one of the missiles at a military target, miss it by a hundred miles, what then? The chances are it may well explode in a highly populated urban area. The effect on civilian life will be catastrophic. The greatest threat the West faces from this new weapon is what happens if it fails to perform properly? The likelihood of that happening are, the experts believe, very high indeed.’
*
Koliakov watches Pountney’s image fade as the programme’s portentous theme music plays over the closing credits. He turns off the television. Is it possible that what began as a stupid device to get out of a hot room and into a cold bath has led to this? Surely not. But the thought won’t leave him. He invented the idea of an orbiting satellite armed with nuclear missiles on the spur of the moment. Is it possible that he anticipated reality?
He has seen on the embassy television the statement made by the First Secretary outside the Romanian parliament, and he remembers smiling inwardly that his plan was working. What he invented on that boiling night was a policy of threatening words and ideas whose sole purpose was to intimidate the West. He had taken the most extreme idea he could think of because that was the only way to end the meeting. He never imagined that such an idea would have an independent life.
Now this.
What he has learned from the television programme terrifies him. The idea of inaccurate weapons falling on civilian targets and killing indiscriminately fills him with horror. In his mind he sees a bleak, desolate place, a clearing in a forest in winter, the branches of the fir trees bending under the weight of snow. There is no wind, no sound, only a bitter cold. The darkness is lit by the headlights of two lorries. The smell of diesel mixes with the smell of cordite. He sees the body of an old man, his only protection against the bitter night air an overcoat thrown hastily over nightclothes, lying face down on the recently dug earth. Around him are other bodies, of men and women, all old, all dressed as if they had been roused from their sleep and given only moments to leave their homes. All are dead, brutally murdered.
Koliakov sees himself, as he has so many times over the years, holding the machine-gun that has killed them. He can feel the effect of the recoil in his arms, the heat of the barrel; he can smell the burning oil. It is an all too familiar nightmare. He can taste the salt of his own tears.
He knows that the idea that he is responsible for such an outrage is an invention of a powerful subconscious. He has never fired a shot at a human target in his life, and he cannot imagine himself doing so except in the direst moments of self-defence. Yet the haunting refuses to leave him. Nor will it, he knows, until he can rid his conscience of the fear that he will be the cause of death of innocent people, like the frozen bodies in the clearing.
3
Kate got out of bed and stood by the window. The early morning light made the roofs shine. The streets were still deserted. Silent people, silent streets – she had noticed that in her first few days. Moscow wasn’t a noisy city – was it the lack of cars? Or the cowed nature of the people? How strange it was here. Even after a year there were so many mysteries she would never solve.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Looking at the view.’
‘Come back to bed.’ She didn’t move. ‘Com
e back to bed.’ More urgently this time, and she responded.
*
‘Is it always like this?’ Kate asked, struggling to reach an empty seat.
‘What did you expect?’
Almost every row in the lecture theatre was already filled. Students were standing in the aisles and at the back of the auditorium. From the numbers in the audience, she assumed many more had turned up than those studying the course.
‘He’s the most popular man in the faculty,’ Yelena said, unwinding her scarf. ‘His lectures are always full. Some of us come because we have to, some because we want to. I wonder which category you belong to?’
Kate had met Yelena Aronovitch, a second-year student at the Institute of History, at a party to which some of her fellow musicians at the Conservatoire had insisted on taking her. She was a plump, plain girl in her early twenties. In a sudden rush of confidence a few nights before, while making tea for Kate in her hostel, she had confessed her infatuation with her history lecturer.
‘When he’s speaking, you hang on every word he says, as if your life depends upon it. You can’t help yourself. He seems to have this power over all of us. He stares at us as if he’s searching for someone he’s lost. Whenever he looks at me, even though it’s only for an instant, I think I’m going to melt.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Why don’t you come and see for yourself? You might learn something, mightn’t you?’
More laughter, this time less nervous.
‘That would be my excuse, would it?’
‘Why not? He’s worth it, he’s so good-looking, you’ll see.’
‘The morning is our time for practising.’
‘An hour away won’t harm your career.’
Her Russian wasn’t up to it, Kate replied. She wouldn’t be able to follow what Berlin was saying. All those abstractions would wash over her head. Perhaps some other time, when her command of the language was more assured. What she meant was that she hadn’t come to Moscow to listen to communist propaganda, however attractive the speaker might be. She was letting Yelena down gently.
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