“An American journalist.”
“Bridges?”
“That’s right,” Bridges replied with surprise.
“And you want to interview me?”
Bridges nodded.
“It usually takes three months of applications.”
“I know,” Bridges agreed. “And then we don’t get the interview.”
“You are a resourceful man,” Yermakov said. “Not the man I was led to believe you were.”
Whatever else he might be, Bridges thought, he is a leader. He looked like a man who had just fought and won some sort of battle, not a man held at gunpoint over an explosive charge that would distribute his body over the ravine with one downward plunge of the detonator.
Yermakov folded the letter. “To my family,” he explained. “In case anything goes wrong.…” He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late. I only grant interviews in the morning. Try again after these lunatics have served me breakfast.” He turned his back: the audience was over.
“And now,” Pavlov said when they were outside, “I propose to lock you up in the cell. You can start writing your story. God knows how you can ever get it out of Russia, though.”
“There is a way,” Bridges said.
* * *
It stopped snowing at three in the morning. Five minutes later the carriage was illuminated with a glaring white light. Slitting his eyes together, the Pederast killed the searchlight with one shot from his AK 47.
CHAPTER 7
The major was cheerful. He brought hard-boiled eggs from the field kitchen and an orderly brought coffee, bread and fruit. Libby guessed he chose his meal times so that he could be alone with her. She asked him what was happening and he gave her some vague, cheerful answers. The worse the situation the chirpier he became. He asked her where Bridges had gone and when she said she didn’t know he replied: “It can only be there” – pointing towards the bridge.
“Do you think he made it?”
The major sliced off the top of his egg. “Perhaps. Who knows?” He dug into the egg with a plastic teaspoon. “Are you very fond of Mr. Bridges?”
“I respect him.”
“Then you’ve changed your ideas.”
“You’re very observant.”
“I’m sensitive to atmosphere. Especially when it is the atmosphere surrounding a beautiful woman.”
“You did say your father was in the diplomatic corps?”
The major grinned, eyes bright blue and healthy. “I’m a Siberian. We’re romantic people. Siberia is full of romance and sorrow. Did you ever hear the story of the French engineer’s daughter who became engaged to a Russian at Krasnoyarsk?”
Libby said she hadn’t. She tried to eat but the bread was dry in her mouth. She sipped her coffee, staring through the open doorway towards the bridge.
“Her father built a bridge for the Great Siberian Railway there. She was given a set of earrings made from Siberian diamonds as a wedding present. The wedding was arranged for the same day as the opening of the bridge. But, to wear the earrings, she had to have her ears pierced. She got an infection and died on her wedding day. It is said that every true Siberian weeps when he passes over that bridge.”
Watching him through the steam from her coffee, Libby thought it unlikely that the major had ever wept in his life. She asked what had happened to Pavlov’s wife.
The major was vague. “She had been dealt with,” he said. “That’s all I can tell you. Perhaps Colonel Razin will enlighten you. He’s in charge of security.” He implied that this accounted for the lack of security.
“What happens now?” Libby asked.
“We wait. There’s nothing else to do. It would seem that Comrade Yermakov has no wish to be a martyr. Why should he? He’s worth ten Jews. A hundred, a thousand.… Why should we keep them here, anyway? Clothing them, feeding them. I think we should let them all go. Send three million Russian Jews to Israel. How would Israel like that?”
“Are you anti-Semitic?”
“Of course not.” The major decapitated his second egg. “I’m pro-Russian, that’s all. As a matter of fact I’m pro-Israeli, too.” He didn’t bother to lower his voice. “As a soldier I must be. Since when has the world seen such a fine army? And why? – because they’re fighting for their existence. I would be proud to fight with the Israelis.”
“Then why are you against the Jews who want to leave Russia for Israel?”
“Because they’re Russians,” the major said shortly, peeling an apple with a clasp knife. “But let’s talk of other things,” he said, quartering the apple and handing the segments to Libby. “It’s very pleasant, you and I being alone here together.”
“You, me and about 500 soldiers.”
“Together in this building,” the major went on. “Think of its history. The romance of gold. The greeds and passions that existed here as the men waited to get back to civilisation. As men arrived hoping for their pot of gold only to find that the seam had been worked out.” He poured them more coffee. “Perhaps you will return to Russia when you’ve finished this trip? Perhaps we could meet in Moscow or Leningrad? I can always save my leave.…”
“Perhaps,” Libby said. “Anything’s possible.”
The major sighed. “But you’re in love with Bridges. The Americans.… They seem to be our rivals in everything.” He summoned the orderly and said something in Russian which Libby didn’t understand. The orderly left the station building.
The major said: “There will be a lot of saluting later today. A lot of very important gentlemen are coming from Moscow. Including” – the thought seemed to please him – “Colonel Razin’s superior officer. Although,” he added meditatively, “I expect Razin is a match for him. He has survived a long time. But he’s got a lot to talk himself out of this time.” He finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. “If it wasn’t for his sort, Germany would rule the world today. If they’d let the generals handle the war they would have won it.”
The orderly returned carrying a pair of field grey Zeiss binoculars. “The spoils of war,” the major commented. He took them to the doorway and stared through them towards the bridge, rotating the focusing mechanism. “Ah,” he said, “there is our beloved leader eating a hearty breakfast. I must say I admire that man.” He continued to stare through the field glasses, looking not unlike Rommel. “Here.” He beckoned Libby. “You have a look.”
Libby took the field glasses but at first the carriage was a blur. “Here.” The major came to her aid, putting his arms around her from behind, fiddling with the focus. “Now try.” He stayed with his arms round her. “Try the last compartment,” he advised. Libby panned along the carriage until she found Bridges standing at the window.
The major withdrew his arms. He grinned saying: “I think I’ve just cancelled a date in Leningrad.”
Libby kissed him happily. “You’re very sweet,” she said.
* * *
The two helicopters arrived at 10.00 hours carrying ten men in civilian uniform – long dark coats with square shoulders, grey scarves, shapkas. Even their faces had a uniformity about them: flinty, wary, composed. The men from the Kremlin climbed down from the helicopters, standing together beneath the lazy blades, as if they were waiting to take their places on the platform in Red Square. Among them was the young careerist threatening Yermakov’s authority. They were escorted to a long white snow tent equipped with field stoves, insulated against the cold.
General Rudinko and the major and Anatoly Baranov and Razin went to separate tents.
“Well?” said Anatoly Baranov, head of the K.G.B. “What explanation have you to offer?”
“I don’t have an explanation,” Razin said calmly. “I can give you an account of what happened.”
An orderly brought lemon tea which he placed on the packing case between the two men. Razin appraised his superior: lanky body, bony head, pale eyes; a monocle would have suited him, he thought. Razin knew that he was now fighting for his career, possibly his
life. He was fortified by the knowledge that Baranov was a little scared of him – his relationship with Yermakov, his past association with Beria whose name still engendered fear.
Baranov sipped his tea, crooking his little finger. “I think an explanation is more in order, Comrade Razin. Although I can’t see any possible excuses for this … this debacle.”
“Perhaps when you’ve heard what I have to say.…”
“I’m waiting, Comrade Razin.”
“Are the Jews being released?”
Baranov nodded. “We had no choice – thanks to your handling of the affair.”
“In that case Yermakov will walk out alive.”
“Can you guarantee that? What’s to prevent them killing him after they’ve achieved their object?”
“A lot,” Razin said, rationing his information so that, subtly, he dominated the conversation.
Baranov drummed his fingers impatiently on the packing case. “Please continue, Comrade Razin. So far you’ve said nothing that impresses me.”
“They won’t kill him,” Razin said, “because we shall broadcast a message to them threatening that, if any harm comes to Comrade Yermakov, then exit visas for every Jew wanting to leave Russia will be stopped. Then they would be traitors to their cause rather than heroes.” Razin’s hand strayed to the bruise on his neck.
Baranov stood up and strode around the tent, hands behind his back. “Very well, I accept that Comrade Yermakov will probably be released. Now let’s hear your explanation – your account – of why you let this disastrous situation arise.”
Razin allowed a smile to crease his face; Baranov noticed it and frowned. “I allowed it to happen,” Razin said slowly and deliberately, “because you authorised the presence of Viktor Pavlov on the train. You, Comrade Baranov, authorised a ticket for a mongrel Jew on the same train as Comrade Yermakov.”
Baranov turned on his heel, muscles working in his jaw. “Don’t try and threaten me.”
“That’s your interpretation,” Razin said. He almost felt sorry for this lanky, ruthless man who had never fully learned the rules of survival. Rule No. 1: Never aspire to the top because the fall is precipitous, often fatal. Far better to be a grey eminence. He went on: “I have the document bearing your signature. The signature taking full responsibility for what has happened.”
Baranov sat down abruptly, his face grey. “Do you have the document with you?”
“Of course not.”
“I authorised the ticket on the instructions of certain members of the Praesidium.”
You fool, Razin thought. He said: “Do you think they will admit that?”
Baranov’s expression showed he didn’t believe any such thing.
“Anyway,” Razin said, “I’m happy that you’ve arrived to take command of this … this debacle. I hope to learn a lot from your techniques.”
He strode out into the sunlight leaving Baranov hunched over the packing case. The sun was bright, the sky was blue and snow dust was suspended in the air like gossamer.
There is just a chance, Razin thought, that I shall survive once again. He had one more weapon: the tape of the conversation on the train in which Yermakov instructed him to take no action against Bridges or Pavlov. It was even possible that Yermakov would appreciate the initiative of a man prepared to bug the desk of a Kremlin leader. Razin had one fear: that, as a result of the “debacle”, he would get Baranov’s job.
He picked up the megaphone and warned Pavlov and his men that if any harm befell Yermakov no more exit visas would be issued to any Jews.
From her handbag Libby Chandler took a hand mirror. She slipped it into the pocket of her coat and approached the two white-clad soldiers at the door making the same request which Demurin and Bridges had made before her. The guards nodded: they had taken advice on this eventuality: they took her handbag containing all her papers and let her retire to a cluster of bushes to one side of the station.
Libby reached the bushes, breathing deeply of the pure sharp air. Taking the mirror from her pocket, she began to flash it in the direction of the bridge, hoping Bridges had been a Boy Scout. She had briefly been a Girl Guide and she frowned trying to send the message HARRY ARE YOU ALL RIGHT MY LOVE QUERY.
She stepped out from behind the bushes so that he would be able to see her through binoculars. Nothing happened for a few minutes. She was about to transmit again when the flashing began in the compartment where she had seen him. She thought it said AM FINE MISS –– She had trouble deciphering the next word which she thought would be you. Instead it began with an M. MY KIN? Perhaps it was some sort of code – he wanted a message relayed to someone in America. A wife? MY KIN? Then she understood: MEAKIN. She smiled, wishing she were with him.
Razin said: “Who’s Miss Meakin?”
Libby swung round guiltily. Then she said: “You never give up, do you?”
“Never,” Razin agreed. But there was a smile on his heavy features.
She told him about Annette Meakin.
“You have a lot in common with her,” he said when she had finished. He shook his large head. “You British … I sometimes wish we were on the same side.” He took her arm. “Shall we return to the station?”
They walked back, feet sinking deep in the snow.
“It would seem,” he said “that Mr. Bridges has undergone a change of heart. He’s acting like a man again.…”
Libby interrupted. “He was never a coward.”
“I didn’t say he was. Just misguided. He would have found a retreat here but never a home. That’s what they all find when they escape to Moscow. No one admires a defector. In fact,” Razin said thoughtfully, “you could say that Mr. Bridges was a courageous man to even contemplate staying here because he knew what it would be like. He knew the Philbys and the Macleans: he knew what sort of hell they have created for themselves.”
“What will happen to him?” Libby asked.
“Ah.” Razin patted her hand. “I can’t answer that. There are more important people around than myself.” He didn’t sound as if he believed it. “He will be fairly treated. That’s all I can promise you.” They were almost at the station. “But, more important, what will happen to you?”
“I shall go to Japan.”
“And await the arrival of Bridges? It might be a long wait, Miss Chandler.” He paused. “That is, if we allow you to continue your journey.”
“You can’t stop me,” Libby said. She stopped, pulling her arm away. “I’m a British subject and all my papers are in order.”
“I doubt it. In the first place your visa is only valid for your journey across Siberia. By the time you reach Nakhodka that will have expired. We would be perfectly within our rights in detaining you.”
Libby turned on him angrily. “It isn’t my fault that I’ve been delayed because you allowed Yermakov to be kidnapped.”
Razin shrugged. “Not your fault, I agree. But you see, Miss Chandler, the Soviet authorities won’t want the world to know about this bizarre episode. Now there are only three people who can leak the information – Bridges, Stanley Wagstaff and yourself. Bridges can be taken care of quite easily. Wagstaff can be detained on suspicion of spying. That leaves you. What are we to do?”
“If you keep me in Russia there will be protests at international level.…”
“We’ve survived many such protests,” Razin interrupted. “They don’t bother us too much. No country goes to war over one missing person. What happens? Maybe Britain expels a few diplomats. We do the same. The world loses interest. The two countries continue as before because they need each other.” Razin opened the door of the station and ushered Libby inside. “Sometimes, of course, it emerges that the missing people have met with an accident. No one can argue. Especially,” Razin said, removing the smile from his face, “in the middle of Siberia.”
He closed the door behind him.
Libby sat down trembling. In her pocket she felt the micro-film. If they wanted an excuse to detain her there
it was.
CHAPTER 8
The eagle hovered above the bridge watching the activity below curiously. It had been flying for two hours, its great wings splayed out and turned up, yellow talons trailing beneath its square tail. During the blizzard it had rested under a ledge in the mountains where only a powdering of snow reached it; then, when the sun rose, it had taken off, soaring and gliding exultantly in its blue kingdom. Now it floated, looking for prey, diverted by the movements of humans in an area where it usually found vermin.
Several of the humans watched it, finding their own symbolism in its flight.
Bridges stopped writing in his notebook to watch the eagle. He wanted to write what he wished, unshackled, uncensored; he was contemptuous of the Harry Bridges who had ever thought otherwise. He sat down again with the notebook, writing with a ball-point, linking his words together with sprawling loops. Dateline: Panhandle, Somewhere in Siberia. For 48 hours Zionist extremists held hostage.…
He sucked the tip of the pen to make the ink run smoothly. Yermakov had refused him an interview, but it didn’t matter. He was here, the only journalist. What was it they used to say? Reporting is ninety per cent luck, ten per cent knowing what to do with it. The story had been delivered to him; now he had to work on his luck. As he wrote he paused occasionally, thinking of Libby Chandler; when he did so the eagle soared away to a white, clap-board house overlooking the Hudson.
In another compartment Vasily Yermakov also watched the eagle. It took him across the snow to the station, back along the long ribbon of track to Moscow, to his family – to the Kremlin where, he thought, the knives would be out. Vasily Yermakov – hero or coward? How could a man who had bartered his life for ten Jews command respect?
Yermakov had no doubt about the outcome of the infighting. He would survive. Only if he was a coward would his enemy and his followers triumph. But Siberia and the threat of death had worked a therapy on him. The spectres of the night had retreated: the future was clear-cut. Siberia, Yermakov thought, is what I have achieved, Russia’s future as glittering as its diamonds.
The Yermakov Transfer Page 23