From the tent he shared with David Gopnik Stanley Wagstaff watched the eagle. He flew with it from the labour camp in Siberia where he expected to serve a sentence of about three years to a press conference in Manchester. “Photographers first please. I will give you a short account of my experiences and then answer your questions.” He hoped the camp would be close to the railway.
For David Gopnik the eagle flew from the bright blue sky into the gentle light of a synagogue. He heard the singing of the Cantor and choir, saw the Rabbi holding the Scroll of Law pass by. He took his place beside the old men in their prayer shawls, read from his prayer book, gazed upon the Ark. Over the years he would continue to campaign for his release; a hundred applications maybe, until he was as old as the autumn-faced worshippers. His campaign was a word of a verse of a chapter of a book of suffering; it was merely that it hadn’t been ordained that he should live in the era when suffering and patience finally triumphed. He was filled with a melancholy that wasn’t far removed from peace. David Gopnik knew that the synagogue was his Jerusalem.
Viktor Pavlov’s wife observed the eagle and it was her son who would live in Siberia and never be told that he had Jewish blood in his veins.
Colonel Yury Razin shielded his eyes to watch the eagle dive and level out above the bridge. A bird of prey that had mastered the laws of survival. He grinned fiercely.
For Libby Chandler the eagle flew east, across the ocean to Japan, across more oceans and continents, on and on, until she found Harry Bridges waiting for her.
Viktor Pavlov noticed the eagle as it dived for its prey. He followed its descent until it vanished behind the pine trees.
CHAPTER 9
It was the tenth day since the Trans-Siberian left Moscow station. The first radio message came through at 23.15 hours. A nuclear physicist named Mikhail Altman had arrived safely in Vienna from Moscow on a TU 134 Flight SU 081 at 17.00 hours.
The Planter took the news to Pavlov who was sitting at the desk staring into the night. It was very still outside and the sky was deep with stars. Pavlov hardly reacted; he looked very strange, the Planter thought, eyes staring at some distant, invisible object, a vein throbbing at his temple.
The Planter ticked Altman’s name on the list spread on the desk in front of Pavlov. “Only nine to go,” he said. “By midday tomorrow the whole operation should be over.” He consulted his wristwatch. “Just over twelve hours.”
Pavlov looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “Do you want to die?” he asked.
The Planter began to tremble. “No. But I’m prepared to – for the cause.”
“I’m prepared to die.”
“None of us has ever doubted that.”
“Then you think it is all worthwhile?”
He’s looking for reassurance, the Planter realised with astonishment. “Of course,” he said, trying to control the breathlessness in his voice. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here. We are sacrificing ourselves.…”
“This is what I propose to do. When we receive the last confirmation on the radio you and the other three can leave. I’ll hold Yermakov until 14.00 hours as agreed. That will give you two hours. A chance, nothing more.”
“Very well. I’ll take that chance.” The Planter’s voice faltered. “I’m not as much of a hero as I thought I was.”
Pouring himself some brandy, Pavlov said: “At least you’re not insane. A crazy half-breed. If only I had been wholly Jewish. But then,” Pavlov said thoughtfully, “neither you nor I might have been here.”
“I don’t understand you,” the Planter said. He wondered if Shiller should take over. “You’re not making sense.”
“Perhaps Gopnik was right. Perhaps I am betraying the Jews of Russia.”
The Planter shook his head desperately. “Don’t say that, Viktor. Not now. If it doesn’t work out … if we have …”
“Gopnik said they would cancel all the exit visas.…”
The Planter looked relieved. “They’ll never do that. America won’t co-operate if they do. They need American aid.”
“Supposing,” Pavlov went on, “the Israelis already have the atom bomb. There have been rumours.…”
“There have also been rumours that they have the cure for cancer. You don’t believe that, do you?”
“I don’t know what I believe,” Pavlov said.
He reminded the Planter of an incurably sick man questioning the life behind him. The Planter said quietly: “If you talk like this then you’re betraying us.”
“Everything is betrayal,” Pavlov said. “We all betray each other in some way or another.”
The Planter guessed he was thinking of his wife and told him: “I think she’s alive. Bridges said he thought he heard a woman’s voice. Who else could it be?”
“Perhaps it would have been better for her to die.”
The Planter removed the brandy bottle. “You’re drinking too much. Like me.”
“Perhaps. What does it matter. You might as well die drunk as sober.”
The Planter decided to consult Shiller.
At 01.00 hours on the eleventh day they received a message from Geneva. Two scientists had arrived safely from Leningrad.
Shiller stood over Pavlov and said: “I’m taking over.” “You always wanted to,” Pavlov said, looking up from the swivel chair. “You’ve left it a bit late.”
“You’re not in a fit state to continue,” Shiller said contemptuously. “You’ve lost your nerve.”
“Have I?” Pavlov rubbed the pulse on his temple, trying to quieten it. “Is there anything wrong with being a coward? Only cowards can be brave, Shiller.”
“There’s a difference in being a coward and losing your nerve. A coward can still lead men but a man who’s lost his nerve can’t.”
“So what are you going to do? Take away my general’s stars? Lock me in the cell with Bridges? Throw me in the ravine?” He shook his head. “It’s you who haven’t the nerve. If you had you would have challenged my leadership years ago. Not wait until you think I’m drunk, sick …
“I have the courage to die.”
“Many cowards commit suicide.”
Shiller’s hand moved towards the pistol in his belt but Pavlov fired first from the automatic he had been holding under the briefcase on his lap. The bullet threw Shiller against the door of the compartment where Bridges was imprisoned. He slid down the door into a sitting position, his muddy features a ruin of blood and bone.
The explosion filled the carriage, forcing needles of pain into Pavlov’s eardrums. He swung round in the swivel chair as Yermakov, the Planter, the Prospector and the Pederast came into the corridor. “Be warned,” Pavlov shouted. “That goes for all of you,” He waved the automatic at the Pederast. “Get rid of that” – pointing at Shiller’s body – “and keep away from the Gruyanov.”
Bridges shouted: “What the hell’s going on?”
No one answered him.
The Pederast said: “You should have let me do that.” There was disappointment in his voice. He opened a door and pushed Shiller’s body towards it; then he stood back and, with one foot, pushed the corpse into the ravine. They waited for the sound of the body hitting the ground; but they heard nothing. It was as if Shiller had dispatched into a bottomless well. Or hell, Pavlov thought.
* * *
In his sleeping bag in the tent he shared with Baranov, Razin heard the shot.
Baranov sat up awkwardly. “What was that?”
“I should imagine,” Razin said, “that the thieves are falling out.”
* * *
By 11.00 hours, with one hour to go, messages had been received confirming the arrival of nine scientists in various European capitals. None of the radio operators transmitting the messages – nor the scientists themselves – knew the circumstances of the Soviet change-of-heart; nor did they know why they had to confirm arrival. Each scientist was told to meet at a certain table in the Dan Hotel, Tel Aviv, at 11.30 a.m. on Thursday, November 1. They knew each other,
Pavlov had reasoned, and when they met they would realise that, together, they were the human elements of a nuclear bomb; Israel’s warhead of the future gathered around a single hotel table.
Pavlov sat with his back to the window, automatic on the desk beside him. He hadn’t eaten and his head ached. He had been awake all night and, despite the imminence of death, his eyes were heavy with sleep. Once or twice his head jerked forward; but he awoke immediately, hand reaching for the gun. But no one seemed to be trying to overcome him; there wasn’t much point any more.
At 11.10 Pavlov told the Planter to send a message over the radio to Shilka for immediate transmission to the field headquarters beside the railway station. “Tell them,” Pavlov said, “that Comrade Vasily Yermakov will walk free from the carriage at 14.00 hours provided three men are granted free passage from the coach at 12.00 hours. If I hear any shots then I’ll blow the bridge.” Pavlov glanced at the detonator. “Tell them this only applies when I’ve received the last message from” – he consulted the list – “from London.”
The Planter went to the radio and sent the message.
Ten minutes later they heard a voice over the megaphone. A new voice. “All right, Pavlov, we agree to your demands.”
“So,” Pavlov said, weighing the automatic in his hand, “you stand half a chance. If you can make it back to Irkutsk the Priest may be able to help you. You have,” he went on, “about the same chance as the brodyagi in the old days. Except that they were helped by the peasants. Even then they usually gave themselves up – or fell asleep in the snow. The winter is your friend and your enemy. It will hamper pursuit but it may take your life. Don’t go north – the cold will take the flesh off you.” Pointing across the ravine, he went on: “Don’t head that way. They’ve got troops there, too. You can just see them through the binoculars. You can try for the coast, if you like, and stow away on a fishing boat. Your chances are minimal. Finally,” Pavlov said, “pray for snow. You’ve only got a two-hour start. Should any of you reach Moscow contact Semenov the Policeman – he’ll fix you up with papers.”
The effort to speak had exhausted Pavlov. He rested his head on his hand, feeling his eyelids sag over his eyes.
The Prospector said to the other two: “Stay with me. I know Siberia as much as any man can ever know it. I can survive. Me and the dog.” The wolf wagged its tail, showing its teeth. “He has already saved us once,” the Prospector said.
Pavlov thought: There’s something I’ve forgotten. His computer had completely seized up; times, figures, schedules spinning wildly. Then he remembered: Bridges. “Bring the American to me,” he said.
When Bridges appeared he asked: “Have you written your story?”
“Most of it. Except that I don’t know the end.”
“Show it to me.”
“A good newspaperman never allows his copy to be vetted.”
“Give it to me.”
Bridges shook his head.
“You used not to have such scruples.”
“Times have changed.”
Pavlov made a weary gesture, “I suppose it doesn’t matter. You can hardly distort what’s happened here.”
Bridges, astonished at the change in Pavlov, said: “No distortion. Just as it happened.”
“How have you described me?”
“Does it matter?”
“A condemned man’s wish.”
“How do you want to be described? Guerilla? Freedom fighter? Terrorist? They all amount to the same thing. It just depends which side’s doing the describing.”
“How about commando?” Pavlov smiled. “Yes, commando. I would like that. Zionist commando.”
“Okay,” Bridges told him. “Commando it is.” He wrote in his notebook.
“We’ve both changed, eh, Mr. Bridges?”
“I guess so.”
“You for the better, me …” Pavlov pushed aside the automatic; no one was going to shoot him now. “God,” he said, “I feel tired.”
“Just one thing,” Bridges said. “How do you figure I’m going to get out of here to send the story?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Pavlov said.
“You’d better send another message on the radio.”
Pavlov called the Planter. “Send another message to Shilka. Tell them Bridges, the American correspondent, will be coming across in ten minutes.”
“Thanks,” Bridges said. When the ten minutes were up he put on his coat and fur hat and extended his hand. “What do I say? Good luck? All the best?”
“Don’t say anything,” Pavlov told him. “Just go – while you can.”
Bridges walked along the bridge on to the far side of the ravine. The day was bright again with the sky shedding a few flakes of snow. He fancied he saw the muzzles of the Gruyanovs moving outside the railway station. He walked towards them thinking that one burst would solve the problem of what to do with the story.
When he was 100 yards from the guns in their nests of packed snow Libby broke free from the guards and ran towards him, crying and laughing, her long blonde hair flowing behind her. He took her in his arms, feeling her cold cheeks against his. “Oh Harry,” she said. “Oh Harry.”
He kissed her. Behind them he saw Razin approaching. He slipped the notebook into her coat pocket with the micro-film. “Listen,” he whispered. “I’ve only got a couple of seconds. I’ve slipped the story into your pocket. When you get to Japan put a call into my New York office. Tell them what happened then phone the story. It’s our only chance. There’s no ending to it but you’ll know that soon enough. You’ll have to write the ending.” He kissed her again. “Promise me that you’ll send the story whatever happens?”
“I promise,” she said. “I promise.”
“You see,” he said, “a good newspaperman can always find a way to get a story out.” And, as Razin came up to them he said: “I love you. Always remember that. I’ll get out soon. Don’t be afraid.…”
Razin said: “I think you’d better come with me, Mr. Bridges, and let me know what’s happening over there.”
* * *
It was 11.50 and the last confirmation from London still hadn’t come. Pavlov, the Planter and the Prospector waited in the control room; the Pederast stayed with the Gruyanov, fingers playing with the trigger as he mowed down an imaginary line of advancing soldiers, a smile on his pale, ravaged face; Yermakov stood at the other end of the corridor, smoking one of his cardboard-tipped cigarettes, wearing a neatly-pressed grey suit, white shirt and maroon tie. The wolf, feeling the tension, raised its head and howled; the Prospector spoke to it gently and it sat down, ears flattened.
The Planter said: “We should have heard from them half an hour ago.”
“They’ll come through,” Pavlov told him. His eyes had a yellowish tinge to them; there was stubble on his chin and he smelled like an alcoholic. “They have to. This is the most important one.”
The scientist was Academician Leonid Tseytlin. Russia’s most brilliant young nuclear physicist, he had been lecturing at the cosmodrome at Baikonur, the launching pad for the first man into space, Yury Gagarin, and the first woman, Valentina Tereshkova, when the authority for his release had been sent. The Zealots had routed him by domestic flights to Moscow’s Vnukova airport and then to Sheremetyevo to pick up a B.E.A. Trident to Heathrow. At Heathrow he would be taken to an office in Mayfair for the final act – the safe-arrival transmission to Siberia via Moscow and Irkutsk.
The Prospector said: “Maybe his flight was delayed.”
“We allowed for that,” Pavlov snapped. “If Sheremetyevo was closed then the whole operation was put back twenty-four hours. But the others took off. Why not Tseytlin?”
“Engine trouble?” the Planter suggested.
“Then B.E.A. would have flown out another aircraft,” Pavlov said.
The Pederast sauntered up. “Perhaps,” he said, “he’s been hijacked.” He smiled and walked back to his gun.
Pavlov said to the Planter: “Try again
.”
The Planter fiddled with the controls, hands trembling. “Nothing,” he said after a while. “Maybe we should leave it now. After all, nine of them have got out. That’s enough, surely.”
“Ten,” Pavlov said. “It has to be ten. If we don’t hear from London then we blow the bridge.”
Yermakov joined them. He had slept, bathed, dressed with care: the general from headquarters visiting battle-weary troops. “I thought,” he said, “you had made allowances for every eventuality.”
“Don’t worry,” Pavlov said, “you’ve got nothing to be scared of.”
“But you have, Comrade Pavlov.”
It was 11.58. Snow was still flaking gently from the sky; but you could see the railway station, the troops dug in, the group of men in dark coats standing behind them.
At 11.59 the message came through. Tseytlin had arrived. There had been bad weather at Heathrow and the Trident had been diverted to Manchester.
The Planter buried his face in his hands and began to laugh. The Prospector called the wolf. The Pederast stayed at the machine-gun looking reflectively at Yermakov.
Pavlov said: “Victory.” He passed his hand over the stubble on his chin; his lips were trembling and he was trying to smile. He turned away from the others. “Victory,” he repeated. He turned back, muscles on his jaw working. “Thank you,” he said. He shook each of their hands. “Now you can go. Good luck.”
The Pederast spoke from behind the machine-gun. “Why don’t we kill him?”
Pavlov walked down the corridor towards him. “Yermakov goes free.”
“Why? We’ve won. All ten of them are free. Why let him go back?”
Yermakov stood impassively in the corridor. Pavlov had his automatic in his hand. “Yermakov goes free,” he repeated. “That was the bargain. We Israelis are men of honour. If we kill Yermakov then there is no honour, no victory.”
“No fine epitaph for Viktor Pavlov,” the Pederast said. “Honour? What’s honour? It’s something I’ve never known,” he said softly.
Pavlov raised the automatic and the Pederast said: “Go ahead and kill me. It’s the only experience I’ve never had.” He swung the barrel of the Gruyanov. “But I promise you this – we’ll share the experience.”
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