“An interesting notion of Kurishoda’s,” Bowers said after Dyashkin had sat down. “I was just saying to the friend I’m with—Jenny Hampden of Bell, I don’t know if you’ve met; she’ll be back in a few minutes—neutrinos would make the perfect bomb. Then all of you and all of us could stop worrying, eh?”
Dyashkin smiled automatically, but he didn’t ask Bowers to elaborate and was evidently not in the mood for small talk. He scanned the surroundings constantly with his eyes, and seemed nervous. Bowers became serious and looked at the Russian inquiringly as he continued eating. “We know each other from several years now, yes, Dr. Bowers?” Dyashkin said. He spoke guardedly, with an elbow resting on the table and a hand covering his mouth.
Bowers nodded. “I guess so—in a formal kind of way, anyhow.”
“Even so, sometimes we must take risks and trust our judgment. I judge you as someone who can be trusted.”
Bowers wiped his mouth with a corner of his napkin and resumed chewing slowly. When he spoke, his voice had dropped to match Dyashkin’s. “What are you driving at?”
“When are you due to go back to the USA?” Dyashkin asked.
“Well, I’m on a one-year exchange here in Osaka. But I was planning to go home for a vacation right after this conference is over. Why?”
“Anyone might join us at the table, so I come straight to the point while we are alone.” Bowers waited. Dyashkin drew a long, shaky breath. “Look, Dr. Bowers, it is possible that I might be interested in coming over, if the conditions were right. You understand?”
It took Bowers a moment. “To us, you mean? Over to our side?”
Dyashkin nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yes. Personal reasons—too much to go into now. But what I want to know from you is, would you be willing to convey my proposition to the appropriate authorities?”
“Proposition? But I don’t know anything about what it is. How would—”
“I can arrange that. What I have to know now is, would you be willing to help me?”
Bowers chewed in silence for a while. “I’ll have to think about it,” he said finally.
“How long will you need? Please understand that we constantly risk being under observation when we travel abroad. The KGB even infiltrate their people into conferences such as this.”
“Give me until tonight. I’ll meet you in the bar of our hotel at, say, eight. Do you think it would be safe to talk there?”
Dyashkin shook his head. “I don’t want to talk. All I need at this stage is a yes or a no answer.”
“Okay, I won’t say anything. If I offer to stand the first round of drinks, the answer’s yes. Okay?”
“As you say, a deal.”
Two more figures materialized at the table. “Gustav and Sandy,” Bowers greeted. “It’s about time—we were starting to get lonely here. Say, did I ever tell you my theory about the perfect bomb? . . .”
That afternoon, Bowers called the US embassy in Tokyo for advice. Later, back at the hotel, he went through into the bar for an after-dinner drink. Precisely at eight o’clock, Dyashkin appeared and joined him. “Hi,” Bowers said. “Quite a day today, eh? What are you having, Igor? The first one’s on me.” The Russian asked for a vodka and soda.
Later, while they were talking, Dyashkin pointed to the orange document folder that Bowers had placed on the seat beside him. It was one of the packages issued to each attendee, and contained the conference agenda, copies of the papers being presented, and other information. “Obtain another package from the registration desk,” he said. “Tomorrow there is a paper on laser solitons scheduled for three o’clock. Be there, and place the folder on the floor by your chair. I will exchange it for one I’ll be carrying, which will contain details of the proposal that I wish you to carry to the American authorities.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“The fractional Fourier-Brown-Wierner series with independent Gaussian coefficients converges to a sum for all H greater than zero, you see. But above H-equals-one, the sum becomes differentiable . . .”
The end of the day was approaching. McCain lay on his bunk in the billet and listened to Rashazzi expounding vigorously to Haber over a pile of books and papers strewn across the table in the center aisle. They had introduced themselves to McCain earlier, when they returned from the day work-shift. Rashazzi, or “Razz,” as everyone called him, was an Israeli, young, handsome, dark-eyed, and of boundless energy and enthusiasm. Haber was a West German, with a pink, crinkled, bespectacled face and thinning white hair, who was getting on somewhat in years and gave the impression of belonging more in a sanatorium than a prison camp, although McCain already half-suspected this could be an act. They were both scientists of some kind, obviously. Rashazzi said he was a biologist from the University of Tel Aviv. Maybe, McCain had conceded. Maybe not.
Each pair of bays facing each other across the central aisle along the length of the billet constituted an eight-man “section”—two double bunks in each bay. The front section—i.e., the one immediately inside the door—housed Rashazzi, Haber, and Koh in the bay on the far side, and on the near side, McCain, with Mungabo the Zigandan above, and opposite them, occupying a single bunk by the end wall like Koh, an Irishman called Scanlon. Koh and Scanlon were elsewhere for the moment.
“Where did you get that from, you pig!”
“It was a fair play, you-who-were-not-born-but produced-by-farting!”
“And your father was a pig, and your mother was a pig! . . .”
More voices filtered through from the next section beyond the partition. They sounded like Siberian dialects from Soviet Central Asia. The gambling had begun immediately after the evening meal, the squabbling soon thereafter, and the aroma of strange substances being smoked was wafting around the partition. Rashazzi had warned McCain that this went on all the time, but not to worry about it. From others who had crossed through on their way between the rear of the billet and the mess area outside, McCain had caught snatches of Czechoslovakian and recognized several Russians. The bunk above creaked as Mungabo shifted his weight. McCain stared up at it. Escape was surely out of the question. Finding something purposeful to focus on in this place could get to be a problem, he decided.
A figure came along the center aisle from the far end of the billet and stopped near the bottom of the bunk. “No, we don’t want none today,” Mungabo’s voice said from above. The figure ignored him. McCain looked out when he realized that the figure was staring at him. He was tall and lean, thirtyish, perhaps, with waves of blond hair flowing to the base of his neck, a yellow mustache, and clear, penetrating eyes set in a hawkish face. The addition of a beard would have made him a natural for the lead role in any Bible movie. “Hello,” he said. “I guess we should get acquainted.” He spoke in even, measured tones, with what sounded like a Midwest accent. McCain swung his legs off the bunk and sat up. The other stretched out a hand. “Paul Nolan, Springfield, Illinois.”
“Lew Earnshaw, just about everywhere, but Iowa originally.”
Nolan sat down on the edge of Scanlon’s vacant bunk opposite. “So, how did you manage to get yourself in here?” he asked lightly. When McCain didn’t reply immediately, he went on, “I heard a rumor going around that a couple of American journalists were arrested a while back, during the May Day tour. Were you one of those?”
McCain’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I want to start answering questions like that,” he said.
Nolan smiled condescendingly, as if he had been expecting as much. McCain didn’t like people who smiled too easily. “That’s wise. I started out training to be a lawyer, you know. It’s not all the way people think. It’s vicious and competitive, like going back to the jungle. There’s no sense of decency or ethics left anymore. Just money. They all sell their souls to the corporations. So I got out. Ended up in government, with the IPA in Washington—on their legal staff.”
“The Industrial Policy Agency was scrapped years ago,” McCain said.
“Yes, well, that was a while
ago . . .” Nolan seemed to be about to say something further, then changed his mind. “Anyway, what I came to tell you was that Luchenko wants to talk to you. He’s down at the other end.”
McCain raised his eyebrows, wondering momentarily what the American was doing running errands for the Russian foreman. Then he dismissed the thought with a shrug and stood up. “Okay. Let’s go.”
They walked past the torrent of varied suidian insults still flying prolifically from the game in progress on one side, and through into the section beyond that. A bearded man at the center table was making tea from a hot-water pot that seemed to have a permanent place there, while another talked as he watched: “She never believed anything anyone said. She’d call on the phone and ask if her daughter was there. I’d tell her, ‘No, she’s out.’ And then five minutes later the woman would call again and ask the same thing. She’d try to disguise her voice, but I could tell it was her because . . .” The next section contained more Asiatics on one side and empty bunks on the other, except one in which a pink-faced man with a high forehead was lying reading.
Passing through the next section, McCain caught snatches of a man who sounded Polish talking to a group. “They stopped short of Warsaw and sat there for two months to let the Germans wipe out the Polish Resistance for them. It was deliberate.”
“That’s a lot of rubbish,” someone replied. “They couldn’t go any farther. Look how far they’d advanced all through July.”
The first voice dropped to a murmur. “Hey, Smovak, who’s he?”
“New arrival today—in the front section.”
An older man sitting with them threw in, “My father was there, you know—with Konev’s army. . . .”
“An American,” Smovak said.
There was a man lying on a bunk, staring morosely at a photograph of a woman on the locker beside him. . . . Finally they arrived at the end section. Five sections, eight men per section. Space for forty in the whole billet.
Two men were waiting at the last table. The one at the end was roundly built and on the heavyish side, with thinning hair combed straight back from the forehead in typical Russian style, and a fleshy moon-face amply provided with chins. McCain’s first thought was that he’d have looked more in place in crumpled clothes at the front of a schoolroom, or fussing with rosebushes outside a house in the suburbs. The younger man sitting across the corner from him was his opposite: solidly muscled, with a mat of short, curly black hair, a chin of blue-shadowed battleship armor, and scowling eyes that were already weighing McCain as a potential adversary. The moon-face motioned for McCain to sit down. McCain did so, across the bouncer. Neither of them proffered a handshake, and McCain didn’t volunteer. Nolan, whom McCain had mentally dubbed “Creeping Jesus,” sat down two chairs away on the same side.
The moon-face had a buff-colored cardboard folder open on the table in front of him, containing papers. A clipboard with a chart of some kind lay next to it. “You are the new American, Mr. Earnshaw, two-seven-one-zero-six,” he said, glancing down. “From Pacific News, California.”
“That’s right.”
“It says here you are a journalist.”
“Uh-huh.”
“My name is Luchenko. I am the foreman of this billet. This is Josip Maiskevik.” McCain gave a curt nod. Maiskevik continued staring at him without moving. “You know how things work here?”
“They told me a little about it at the front desk when I checked in.”
“Do not think of Zamork as a punishment institution. Its purpose is to encourage socially desirable attitudes and behavior. It operates by incentives and privileges, not by coercion. But the privileges have to be earned. I am responsible for seeing that the rules are followed in this billet. If you wish to initiate any communication with the authorities or lodge any complaint, you do so through me. Also, I pass out the work allocations. You will be working in one of the machine shops in the Core, commencing tomorrow morning.”
Luchenko went on to explain about working hours, rules, and procedures. Next in line beyond him was a “block supervisor,” who was also an inmate. The supervisor was the means of access to the commandant in charge of the block, whom the captain had mentioned when McCain was admitted. In the case of Block B, the commandant was a Colonel Bachayvin. Then there was the governor, Fedorov, who reigned above the block commandants. But it appeared that he dwelt on a higher existential plane, from which he seldom descended to deal with prisoners in person. Incorrigibles who were unimpressed by the incentive process could expect a harsher time and solitary detention. The penalty system was more or less standardized, and everyone soon got to know how much time various infractions could be expected to bring. Failing to be back in one’s block an hour before lights-out was good for three days, and being insolent to a guard who was in a bad mood that day, a week. Fighting with other prisoners or sabotaging the work output put you in the month-plus class. Attacking a guard was worth three days at most— “Before they shoot you,” Nolan interjected, smiling.
“I believe in being reasonable,” Luchenko concluded. “You will find I deal fairly with those who deal fairly with me. Nolan can fill you in on other details. Do you have any questions for now?”
There was something about Luchenko’s manner that didn’t quite fit, McCain had been thinking as he listened. The Russian was trying to affect an air of brusqueness, but it wasn’t him. He was like a salesman trying to put into practice what he’d read on assertiveness, but without the force of character to pull it off. The appeal to reasonableness was for his own protection more than anyone else’s, McCain guessed. And what was the reason for Maiskevik’s brooding, silent presence at the table? A hint, maybe, of how the power structure really worked for anyone who didn’t buy the reasonableness line? That added up. Luchenko’s style would require a strong-arm man behind the throne.
“One thing,” McCain said. “When I was arrested, I was with a colleague, also from PNS. Her name is Paula Shelmer. I haven’t been told anything of her whereabouts or her condition. I want to talk to the block commandant or whoever I need to talk to for some news.”
Luchenko pursed his lips for a second, then leaned forward to scribble a note on one of the papers in his folder. “I can’t promise anything,” he said. “The request will be passed on.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Anything else?”
“I guess that’s it.”
“Very well. As I said, follow the rules, and you will find that life can improve rapidly. Play fair with me, and I will play fair with you. That is all I have to say for now.”
McCain walked back to the front section of the billet and sat down at the far end of the table from Rashazzi and Haber, who were still in the throes of their animated mathematical discussion. Nolan, who McCain hadn’t realized had followed him, pulled up the next chair. “It’ll be a change to have another American in here,” Nolan said.
“Are there many around?”
“Only a couple, in other billets. I don’t have a lot to do with them—too brash and loudmouthed.” Nolan had a habit of smiling all the time, as if he were anxious to avoid being annoying. McCain found it overplacating and as annoying as hell. But this was only McCain’s first day, after all. The onus was on him to show some willingness to fit in.
“Illinois, eh?” McCain said. “I knew a girl from Chicago once . . .”
“Women know nothing about politics.”
“She wasn’t into politics.”
“All they’re interested in is clothes, painting themselves up, and other people’s money. They’re not intellectual.”
“This one happened to be a doctor of recombinant engineering. She ran a company that remodeled plant DNA.”
“Mutating nature for profits.”
“It sounds like you disapprove. Have you got something against feeding people?”
“No, against greed and criminal corporate vandalism.”
McCain nodded. Suddenly he was losing interest in trying to be acc
ommodating. “Now I’m beginning to see what kind of government lawyer you were. Or did you flunk that, too?” he said.
“I told you, I got out of the whole rotten system. I emigrated—to the Soviet Union.”
McCain regarded him distastefully. “You mean you defected.”
Nolan sighed, conveying the understanding tolerance of one who had heard this a thousand times, but whose eyes see farther. “I betrayed none of my principles,” he said calmly. “Americans are forever preaching about freedom and the right to choose. Well, I exercised my right and chose. Why is the choice wrong just because you happen to disagree with it?” He leaned closer. “None of you understand. It’s because of the brainwashing that you—all of us—went through. The USSR is a rich, strong nation. The people are happy with their leaders, and together they are building the world of tomorrow—a world based on equality and justice for everyone. Oppression and exploitation will end. It will be what mankind has been struggling toward for thousands of years.”
“And you’re calling me brainwashed?”
“I simply know what’s true.”
McCain waved a hand to indicate the billet around them, and by implication the rest of Zamork outside it. “Well, your faith’s been rewarded. Why did they put you in here? Was it what you wanted, too? Okay, good. Have fun.” He made to rise to go back to his bunk, but Nolan caught his sleeve.
“That was another story. I thought I understood the philosophy of socialism, but it wasn’t true. I was brought to realize that I, too, had flaws which I’d never suspected. But they are curable. Being here is part of the process, you see. As Luchenko said, it’s not a punishment. I don’t think of it as imprisonment at all.”
“What, then—a vacation resort?”
“A process of guided enlightenment, as in a monastery, I guess. Purification.”
Prisoners of Tomorrow Page 10