Bridges laughed. “Annette Meakin never had it so good,” he said.
They could smell the coffee and they were suddenly very hungry. “Come this way,” the Major said.
They went into the station. Two orderlies wearing belted tunics snapped to attention. They had made a table out of ammunition boxes and there was black bread, soused fish, fruit and coffee on them.
“What are you going to do?” Bridges asked as they ate and drank their coffee.
“Wait,” the major said. “The decision won’t be mine. I suppose,” he said, crumbling a slice of black bread, “it will be his,” pointing towards the bridge.
“Have you any idea what they want?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. A Jewish exodus, perhaps.”
“Maybe,” Bridges agreed. “It’s kind of sad, though. They’re doing more harm than good. The Kremlin was beginning to soften up. These are the last sort of heroes the Jews want. I don’t even know whether it will help world opinion. Although I suppose it might – most people admire the Israeli commandos.”
The major poured them more coffee and said: “But surely, Mr. Bridges, the world needn’t know anything about it.”
Bridges and the major appraised each other. Bridges was about to reply when the droning they had vaguely been aware of developed into a clattering roar. They went outside and saw a helicopter blotting out the sun. It circled the station, tilted away, then began its descent on the opposite side of the station to the bridge. It sank down gently, its blades throwing up the snow. The major walked towards it, buttoning his coat in case there were any generals on board.
The first passenger to alight was Colonel Yury Razin. Neither he nor the major saluted. Army and secret police – the old wary confrontation.
There was a dressing on Razin’s neck and his walk was stiff. They greeted each other politely.
Razin said: “Has there been any communication yet?”
“Nothing. We calculate there are about six men in the carriage. They fired a couple of bursts with the Gruyanov at your men.” The major smiled faintly. “None of them was hit. What’s the plan, colonel?”
“There isn’t one,” Razin said shortly. “We’ll have to wait and see what they want. They sent a radio message to Shilka warning us that if we made any move they’d kill Yermakov. They’ve packed the bridge with explosives.”
“They’re smart,” the major said, leaving the implication hanging between them that they had out-smarted Razin.
“Is it smart to commit suicide?”
“Terrorists do it every day.”
“How have you deployed your men?”
“I’ve deployed them,” the major said flatly. You didn’t disclose military information to a policeman.
“How, Major?”
“Does it matter?”
Razin’s hand strayed to the dressing on the back of his neck. He touched it and winced. He addressed the major coldly: “General Rudenko is flying in from Irkutsk. I spoke to him on the phone this morning.”
The major said: “Then I’ll tell General Rudenko when he arrives.”
“Several members of the Presidium are flying out, too.”
The major smiled. “Some of your superiors from Moscow as well, Comrade Razin?”
Razin spoke softly. “You’re a fool, major, to mix words with me.”
“So be it.” The major clicked his heels and gave a mocking salute. “I’m breakfasting in the railway station. Please be my guest.” He turned on his heel and walked away.
Razin stared after him reflectively. Too young to have learned how to survive. The pain throbbed in his neck and groin. And I am now facing my supreme test.
He signalled to the occupants of the helicopter. The local K.G.B. chief alighted first followed by Professor David Gopnik and Anna Petrovna, Heroine of the Soviet Union.
CHAPTER 5
“I told you to destroy it.” Pavlov stared at the wolf curled up at the end of the carriage. Without total obedience flaws appeared in any military stratagem. So far the plan had gone well, despite the excess of imponderables: a minor infraction like this could ruin everything. “I should have you disciplined,” he told the Prospector.
“This isn’t the army,” the Prospector said, his eyes resentful in his shaggy features. “We’re all together in this. We all die together.”
“You have a chance,” Pavlov said. “If they accept the terms.” A pulse beat on his temple. “They release the ten scientists and we hand Yermakov over. Then I offer to stand trial and inevitable execution in exchange for the safe conduct of you and the others.”
“Do you think there’s a chance they’ll accept?” the Planter asked. Now the Pupil was gone he was the weakest link, taking nips of vodka in the bathroom.
Shiller said: “Your desire to die is very commendable.”
“Do you doubt my courage?”
“No,” Shiller said, “it’s not your courage I doubt.”
Pavlov ignored him, staring down at the bed of the ravine far below. Not my courage, he thought, my sanity. Something was happening to the computer inside his skull: figures whirled and clicked but the answers were all wrong. As if too much had been fed into it. He took a phial from his pocket and swallowed one of the capsules prescribed long ago when the figures spun too quickly, too brilliantly, so that his pulse-rate stepped up and the adrenalin flowed fast in his veins. They weren’t tranquillisers, the doctor had assured him: just a therapy for genius.
He glanced at his wrist-watch. They would have Yermakov’s decision in two hours. Maybe less. First he had to send a message to the railway station. “Get me a pen and paper,” he said to the Planter and, as the Planter stood up, “a bottle of brandy and a glass at the same time.” He was aware that Shiller was staring at him.
The wolf twitched and whimpered in its dreams, tearing out another throat.
Pavlov wrote: “To whom it may concern.” Then he stopped, staring at the white Kremlin notepaper. He poured himself a shot of Armenian brandy and swallowed it. Tension was swelling inside his head as if a balloon were inflating.
He swivelled from side to side in the leather chair. What had happened to Anna? Did she now know the truth about him? There was, he decided, a faint chance that she didn’t. The authorities would be trying to stop any news of the kidnap leaking out. A wave of emotion assailed him. Anna, what have I done to you? He poured himself a generous measure of brandy and pushed the bottle away.
He took the binoculars from the rack and focused them on the station. Five minutes earlier a helicopter had landed behind it; a group of people had gone into the wooden shack but he had only been able to identify Razin. Now he saw Bridges and Libby Chandler standing at the doorway. What would Bridges do with this story? he wondered. Kill it like he’d killed so many stories before? Pavlov not only wanted to get the ten human components of a nuclear bomb out of Russia: he wanted to get the news of his feat out as well. Even if I am dead by the time it reaches the West.
The Planter went into the bathroom. When he came out he looked happier.
Pavlov stared at the sheet of paper, but no words came.
“Having trouble?” Shiller asked.
He wants to take over, Pavlov thought. He’s got the scent in his nostrils. He picked up the ball-point pen and began to write; explaining the position, explaining that there would be a message from Yermakov at 14.00 hours, reiterating that they mustn’t take any action until then; if they did … Pavlov’s thoughts moved to the explosives packed beneath the bridge. The detonating equipment stood at the end of the carriage, by the wolf. He felt like a man scared of heights enticed to the brink of a precipice by the death wish. He fought the compulsion.
“What’s the matter?” Shiller asked. “Have you finished it?”
“Finished,” Pavlov said, signing the message. “Get Wagstaff.”
Shiller went to the cell and knocked on the door. “Time to begin your courier duties,” Shiller said as Stanley came out. “You’d better carr
y a white flag or something.”
“And I would like someone to take my photograph,” Stanley said. “The newspapers will want one.”
* * *
Yermakov read the documents through again. They were foolproof. The exact addresses of each Jew. Their anticipated movements today and tomorrow. The departure and ETA’s of Aeroflot international flights and, in the case of Jews living away from big cities, the times of domestic flights. Once the planes took off each Jew would be in a Western capital within four hours. At the first reading of the document Yermakov had thought it possible to bluff Pavlov into believing that the ten Jews had been released; but that had been taken care of. In each of the capitals Zionist organisations had been instructed to put fixed-time calls into Moscow. When the calls were received radio messages would be transmitted from Moscow to Siberia; not until the last confirmation had been received on the radio in the special carriage would Yermakov be released.
He still had an hour. Sixty minutes of total honesty with himself. The foreboding, now it had concrete form, had vanished. There were only two possible decisions: Capitulation in which case he would lose face; Defiance in which case he would die.
Yermakov didn’t want to die and saw no shame in it. Perhaps it would still be possible to emerge a hero after the release of the Jews. It needed some political thought – scheming, manipulating, delegating uneasy responsibility. The manoeuvres of all the world’s leaders: In Britain they “reshuffled the cabinet” to get rid of incompetents and dangerous careerists. In America they operated beneath an umbrella of zealous endeavour until the umbrella suddenly collapsed and there was Watergate. We’re all the same, he thought, we leaders of men. There was no dishonour in it; all that mattered was what you did with the power you obtained through these methods.
He was surprised by the clarity of his brain after the long nights of doubt. It was as if this forgotten place in Siberia had always been his destination. He poured himself a glass of Narzan, tasting the clean effervescence in his mouth, and stared at the ruff of mountains sharp against the blue sky. What have I done with my power? The camps, the interrogations, the executions crowded behind him; but they were no longer guilt; they were a foothold on which the blood had long since dried. Out of the confusion of suffering the Soviet Union had emerged, more stable than any country in the West; more stable, perhaps, than any country in the world.
The question was: which is the more important for Russia – my continuing leadership in exchange for ten Jews, or my martyrdom? He was still deliberating this when Pavlov came in. “Well?” Pavlov asked.
“I believe I have forty-five more minutes until your ultimatum expires.”
Pavlov looked at him curiously. Reluctantly, he conceded respect.
“I should like to wash and shave,” Yermakov said. It was almost an order.
“Certainly,” Pavlov said. “But you’d better be quick.”
“Perhaps I’ve already made my decision.” Yermakov stood up. “In a way, Comrade Pavlov, I admire you. The tragedy is that you’re doing your people a great disservice. You see,” he said, “you’re not a leader of men.”
Pavlov led him to the bathroom, leaving the door open, watching Yermakov smooth shaving cream into his stubble, using the safety razor with a steady hand. Yermakov washed his face and hands and said: “And now, Comrade Pavlov, a change of clothes.”
As they returned to the sleeper Shiller the Penman observed: “I wonder which of you is really in charge of the situation?”
“Would you please remain outside while I change,” Yermakov said to Pavlov.
Pavlov hesitated before agreeing.
Yermakov selected a white shirt and maroon tie which his wife had given him before he left Moscow. His family, he reflected, hadn’t entered into his deliberations. Except that they were citizens of the Soviet Union and were therefore embraced in everything he did. It had always been that way and his wife understood. He knotted the tie carefully before selecting a charcoal grey suit from the built-in wardrobe.
Pavlov knocked on the door. “Are you ready?”
“Ready, Comrade Pavlov,” Yermakov replied.
From the window of the sleeper Pavlov saw a solitary figure approaching across the snow. The courier returning. He told Yermakov that he would leave him alone for another five minutes. Then he went to meet the courier. But it was a substitute: David Gopnik for Stanley Wagstaff.
* * *
“I should kill you,” Pavlov said.
“Why don’t you then?”
“I wouldn’t waste a bullet. A Jew betraying a Jew!”
“You’re betraying every Jew in Russia.”
Gopnik and Pavlov faced each other across the desk. Gopnik didn’t seem to care any more.
Pavlov asked: “Why did you do it?”
“Razin knew already. Something about a body in Novosibirsk.”
“And you confirmed it for him.…”
“I was going to Khabarovsk. I heard you were on the train. I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. I knew I had to stop you.”
“Why?” Pavlov asked, knowing the answer.
“I told you – because you’re destroying everything the Jews, the Democratic Movement, is working for.”
“Working on their knees,” Pavlov said contemptuously. “Why don’t they stand up and fight?”
“Because that’s not the way. You know that as well as me. They have a central committee, they meet in secret, they’re getting the Jews out of Russia. It’s working. Why ruin it?” His voice was without emotion, he was like an officer who has surrendered to the enemy.
“Why did they send you here?” Pavlov asked, again knowing the answer. “To plead, to grovel.”
Gopnik pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course. They’ve made me an offer. You might as well know – it makes no difference. I didn’t get my exit visa from OVIR. I was told I might get one in three months. Razin has told me that if I persuade you to stop this crazy scheme then I can go now. If I fail then I’ll never go. I don’t really think I care any more,” Gopnik said softly. “I’m only here to plead on behalf of three million people.”
Pavlov said: “You’re here to plead on behalf of yourself.” But he knew it wasn’t true.
“Believe what you like.” Gopnik’s face was grey and there was sweat on his narrow forehead. “But I’ll tell you this: you’re not concerned with the Jews. You’re only concerned with Viktor Pavlov, glory-seeker. This is the Pavlov Crusade; it had nothing to do with the Jewish exodus. Viktor Pavlov, hero, martyr, half-Jew. Too scared to admit his Jewishness in case it interfered with the making of a hero. You sneer at the rest of us. Caution, caution. It’s you who are the coward, Viktor Pavlov. The very worst kind. Willing to sacrifice anyone or anything on the altar of your vanity.”
Pavlov leaned across the desk and hit Gopnik with the back of his hand. Gopnik slipped sideways hitting his head against the window. Shiller watched with interest. Gopnik straightened up; blood was oozing from his nose but he didn’t bother to wipe it away; it reached his lips and he licked them.
“Don’t tarnish the portrait of a hero,” Gopnik said. There were four white marks across his cheek where Pavlov’s fingers had landed.
Pavlov stared at him with disgust. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Gopnik shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
Shiller brought a bottle of brandy over to the desk. “Another drink, Viktor? You seem a little over-wrought.”
“When I want a drink,” Pavlov said, “I’ll ask for it.” He turned to Gopnik. “I’m sorry I hit you. Nothing more. I’ve no intention of abandoning what I’m doing. And I think Israel should count itself lucky that you won’t be going there. It can do without people like you.”
The blood was beginning to congeal on Gopnik’s face. He spoke quietly. “Believe you me, Viktor Pavlov, Israel can do without men like you. It wants men, not madmen.” The weals on his face had turned pink. “Could it be that you see yourself as an Israeli commando? A hero in a com
bat jacket with an Uzi sub-machine gun under his arm? Forget it, Viktor. They wouldn’t send a man like you to clean the latrines.” At last he took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the blood. “You shouldn’t have bothered with Israel,” he said. “You should have gone to Hollywood. You would have been a star.…”
Pavlov stood up. “Go back to Razin,” he said. “Tell him that nothing has changed. Tell him to send Wagstaff back. Tell him your mission has failed.”
“I never thought it would succeed. Just remember, hero, that you could be plunging Soviet Jewry back into the Black Years.…”
“Get out,” Viktor Pavlov said. “If you hadn’t betrayed me I would have arranged for you to be out of Russia within forty-eight hours.”
From the window he watched Gopnik walking slowly across the snow to the group of figures outside the station. He thought it would have been kinder to have shot him.
* * *
The sky still had a polish but it was bruising over the mountains; there was snow dust in the air and the sun had a dark glow to it as if there was fog around.
The message was garbled at first because the technicians were having trouble with the electric megaphone. The words were like melting ice slithering across the no-man’s-land between the station and the bridge.
Finally Pavlov recognised Razin’s voice. “If you can hear me wave a flag.”
Pavlov told Shiller: “Wave a flag.”
“Do we care what they have to say?”
“Wave the flag.”
“Very well,” Shiller said. “If that’s the way you want it.”
The technicians fixed the megaphone and Razin’s voice reached them with frozen clarity. “Viktor Pavlov, you are not the only one holding a hostage. We have your wife.”
Nothing more. Just a sharp click.
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