by John Gardner
“I talk with Martha first.”
“Yes, but if you’re happy, then perhaps ...” The TV screen flickered into life. They all turned to see the computer read out come up.
MOST URGENT DIRECTOR OR G STAFF EYES ONLY.TROILUS.
“It’ll be down in a moment.” The urgency undisguised in the Director’s voice. Tubby Fincher was already halfway across the room to intercept the cipher clerk outside.
It took fifteen minutes for the decipher—Tubby and the DG closeted in the office, while the other three waited outside.
Fincher called them back, and nobody needed telling that the news was not good. The closed faces of the Director, and his ADC, spoke of disaster; though the DG, as usual, put it to them as an understatement. “We seem to have a problem with Stentor, gentlemen,” he announced.
The thinking behind Michael’s journey out to the airport—to do the quick change, and make his first call to Stentor as the nephew, Piotr Kashvar—was an elementary precaution. Stentor’s telephone was certainly wired. They also probably had an intercept system, to trace the origin of call. Kashvar had just arrived in Moscow, and the airport was a better bet than a railway station.
There had been only the slightest pause, a tiny break, in Stentor’s reply when Michael introduced himself: then the effusive full flood. Piotr must come straight over. Did he know how to get to them? Where would he stay? He was welcome at Stentor’s apartment. Come as quickly as possible.
So, Michael again rode the Moscow subway, passing through its great stations with their marble and ornate designs; their statues, chandeliers and paintings. He changed platforms, once more, at Sverdlov Square, and sat back, adjusting to the new smells, noises, and background of the city and its people (“Feel yourself to be one of them,” the ringmasters had cautioned. “Be Russian; think it; act it.”). So, at last, Piotr Kashvar arrived at Koutouzovskaya Station, and walked the few hundred metres to Stentor’s apartment block, where the guards asked for his papers, and telephoned up to Stentor who urged them to let his nephew in.
All the way there, Michael had double-checked. He did not seem to have any tail, or team, on his back.
A few miles away, high in the Kalinin Prospekt block, Vascovsky’s telephone rang. They were halfway through dinner—alone tonight, and eating, with the rest of the evening planned by unspoken, mutual consent: sucking the juice from prime artichokes; savouring tender lamb cutlets, cooked in herbs; spooning in the sensual, delicate flavour and texture of zabaglione; drinking a dry pleasant White Burgundy from Sauvignon de St. Bris. Both Jacob and Yekaterina Vascovsky had creaking bedsprings in mind.
Vascovsky answered the persistent ring. It was his own monitoring room.
“The nephew’s arrived. Just phoned from the airport.” The news came from Vitali Badim, a small, bald-headed major—one of Vascovsky’s most trusted aides.
Vascovsky spoke low and quickly. “Set the teams up near the apartment. Mark him. Report anything unusual. Right?”
Badim acknowledged, smiling to himself. This whole business had occupied his superior’s mind and concentration to a high degree, verging on obsession. Now, at the moment of breaking, the Comrade General obviously had other things on his mind.
Major Badim picked up another telephone and spoke to the officer in charge of surveillance. Once the nephew was inside the apartment block, on Kutuzovsky Prospekt, they had him bottled. When he left, they could follow his every move. Neither Badim, nor the surveillance officer, chose to question why the nephew of such an exalted officer of the KGB should be of interest. They simply did as they were trained. As far as the surveillance teams were concerned they would do the job very well indeed.
Stentor’s wife wanted to fill the boy with food and drink—“Stuff him like a goose,” she said. But Stentor would have none of it. Piotr was tired, and had said he would not impose on them. (“Though how a nephew who has never met his uncle until today can impose, I have no idea.”) Some salt beef, beetroot salad, and vodka would do fine. That’s what Piotr wanted, and that’s what he would get—particularly the vodka: as much vodka as he could hold.
In the meantime, Stentor told his wife, he wanted the boy to himself. There was family business to discuss. Family business from the past, and nothing to do with women. The wife went away muttering and cursing like a trooper, though she smiled to herself as she cut the salt beef. Her husband’s happiness showed on his face. It was good.
In his private room, however, things were not good. Stentor told Michael they were safe. “I personally sweep this room; and there’s no way they can get directional microphones on us.”
“We have a lot to do,” Michael began, but Stentor held up a hand. “No,” he said.
“But...”
Stentor smiled. It really was like being with an uncle, Michael thought. “Look, sir.” He began to argue. “They’re close to you. Vascovsky’s very close to you. We have to get you out...”
“Please listen.” A hint of pleading in the old man’s voice. You could tell he was not asking favours. It ill-suited him. “I know you are at great risk: that you want to get on; and that your superiors want to honour their promises to me—what are the plans, by the way?”
In four or five quick sentences, Michael Gold outlined the whole thing—the escape to the dacha; the British patrol-boat that would be in the Baltic; the SAS team ready in Stockholm—to be picked up by the merchant ship, then dropped with their Gemini inflatables. “One of our people will come alone in a Gemini,” he finished. “If we’re there on time, he’ll take us off, land us on the patrol-boat, and we’ll have you under cover; on the way to London in no time.”
Stentor smiled patiently, nodding. “All clever. Not foolproof, but clever. We would probably have got away with it.”
“Have?”
“It’s simple.” Stentor gave him a look tinged with a weight of sadness. “I can’t come.” The words had a finality about them: the mind made up; no arguments.
“But, sir...”
“Just listen to me; then, perhaps, you’ll understand. At least I have to see you safe, and back in your own country.” The old man patted his knee gently.
There was a pause while Stentor’s wife came in with a great tray of food and drink. It was obvious she wanted to stay, but Stentor shooed her out, saying there would be plenty of time, later, for her to talk with Piotr. She went grudgingly, still muttering to herself.
“That’s one of the reasons I can’t leave,” Stentor told him when the door was closed. “Just one.” He laughed. “Oh, there are days when I’ve thought—longed—for the moment to come: the call from your people, for me to leave Moscow and travel to London. Sometimes she drives me crazy; so it would be an initial relief. But only for a time. We’re used to each other and I’ve always returned to her. Yet that is not the only thing. Ever since I realised the good General Vascovsky was breathing down my neck, I have thought of little else—getting out in one piece. The game is finished, I know that, my nephew. London’s had its last messages from me, and I feel I’ve done good work for them, through the years. It’s over. As I say, I’ve thought of little else. Meditated—that’s the word—I’ve meditated for long, and come to certain conclusions. They are not easy—but nothing is in this life, nephew Piotr, or whatever your real name is.” He poured vodka, raising a glass in toast, then passed food to Michael before he continued—“There was a Christian mystic—St. John of the Cross: you know of him?”
Michael said he had heard the name, but was not a Christian. Stentor doubted if he was a Christian either. “However, I do read a great deal. This St. John of the Cross, you should read; for his work can be applied to many ways of life. His greatest mystical poem cannot be unknown to you—Noche Obscura del Alma: The Dark Night of the Soul. The soul must pass through a darkness; a terrible period of non-belief, and the torment of questioning, until one reaches a state of union with God. In many ways I have, for the past days, been experiencing a dark night of my own soul...”
Michael concentrated, eating in silence as he listened. The salt beef and beetroot brought back waves of nostalgia. Home, in the old days, when his father had been away. The joy of his return, and the meals they had shared. He took a swig of vodka. The nostalgia deepened and with it a flavour of depression.
“It is not a question of belief in any political ideal, you understand.” Stentor poured more vodka. “The dark night of my soul is connected with my faith in Russia, not in God. You see, I am Russian; born, bred, through and through. To leave Russia now would be a worse betrayal than that which, I am certain, the Supreme Soviet will believe I have already committed. It is a viewpoint. To the Party, and the country, my work over these long years has been for Britain. In my own mind, though, it has been for Mother Russia herself. I am of this country’s soil, Piotr; and, unless you are a Russian you do not know what significance the soil of Russia holds to her children.”
“I’ve never been here before,” Michael cleared his throat. “But I’m Russian. My parents came from the Ukraine. I know about the soil. We have a little gold box in my home. It is filled with soil from my parents’ village. They brought it with them. Carried it through the camps and horrors.”
Stentor was silent for a second or two. “Then you understand. The Russian and the soil of Russia are intermingled. I cannot leave Russia, even if I do not hold with the way our masters run the country. Yes, I would like to feel safe in London. But the fact of leaving would, I believe, kill me as quickly as they will do it anyway. Do you see?”
“I think so.”
“My dark night is over, Piotr. I have faith in my country; and this means I cannot leave it—no matter what the cost.”
“You’re committing suicide.”
“Perhaps.”
“And putting others at risk.”
Stentor shook his head. “That is why I tell you now. There is time to lift others; to cover tracks. They’ll get little from me—even with their drugs and hospital techniques. Save the others now.”
“You’re sure of this?” The heavy depression would swallow him, Michael thought. He could have wept at the placid, though firm, acceptance of this man he had come to save. “You’re sure?” he repeated.
“You do not look a fool. I have told you. That should be enough.”
“There’s nothing we can do for you?”
“Not unless you can devise some way of discrediting Comrade General Vascovsky.”
“I could ask. It may be possible. I just don’t know. My real duty, now, is to talk with you: persuade you.”
Stentor said that was an impossible duty; his nephew was only wasting time. “You know your Chekhov?”
Michael had studied all the great Russian writers and playwrights.
“Bring to mind The Cherry Orchard. When that play was written, it was a prophecy: a seer’s view of the cataclysmic change about to take place. Mind you, if any man had brain, and wit enough, at the time, the whole pattern of history should have been obvious. Though, maybe not. Who knows?
“But it is all there, nephew. The social change; the Revolution. You remember the stage directions, during the scene at the picnic? And, later, at the very end of the play?”
“You mean the noise? The string snapping?” Michael had always felt that was an uncertain dramatic device.
Stentor made an affirmative gesture—“A distant sound is heard, coming as if out of the sky, like the sound of a string snapping, slowly and sadly dying away,” he quoted.
“I remember.”
“The imagery is wonderful. Change, as the snapping of a string, in the distance. I’ve often wondered how many men, in the history of mankind, have heard that sound: for it has often been heard—the herald of great change. Change snaps many strings. The past dies away—slowly and sadly.
“I like to think I’ve heard it again, in my fast-approaching old age. Only this time it is change for all mankind, not merely one nation, race, or people. The world has reached a point near to climax. There has to be a new way ahead, through the problems. The string has snapped once more, my young friend. That is why I have come through my dark night, and placed my soul with Russia, where these bones will be buried.” He thumped himself on the chest. Michael found it difficult to believe the man’s age, he looked so fit, and far from his seventy-odd years.
“But, this time,” Stentor went on, “this time, the changes will be so vast that I believe all men will truly come together—maybe through darkness, war, famine, pestilence. However, the outcome will bring some final sense of purpose. For my Russia, not the hypocrisy of a great political ideal, but something more democratic; and for the West, a drawing together with the Third World, and this great country. It will mean a shift from the kind of democracy your statesmen preach; but the end will be as a new dawn.”
“I wish that I could believe it.”
“You will come to it. Now, were you followed here?”
“No.” Michael told him exactly how things had been managed.
“That is good. However, we have to get you back—to the National Hotel, as Michael Gold. This will not be easy. Maybe you were not followed here, but they’ll certainly be out in force when you leave. So—I think I have a plan ...”
“If our people could compromise Vascovsky ... ?” Michael began.
“I think it unlikely. If I were you, I should concentrate on getting out in one piece. You say there is a method by which you can go, and return in a few days?”
Michael repeated the ploy of the dying aunt, which would allow him to leave and rejoin the tour in three or four days.
“Well, Piotr. If they have some way to put the screws on the General, and, possibly clear me—so that I can retire and live to a nice ripe old age, watching the world change and reform from the sidelines—that would be good. You could return and brief me.”
“I have to make one last try ...”
“For what?”
“To make you alter your mind.” Michael knew the answer; so he quickly added, “There, I’ve made it. My one last try. You’ve done wonderful things, sir. Personally I think you’ve made a brave choice: one I respect. If they can do anything for you in London, I’m certain they’ll try.”
“You have a way for communicating?”
“Several. This calls for a Flash. A risk. I daren’t dive for cover to the Embassy.” He gave a quick smile. “Just in case they want me out and in again.”
“So.” Stentor started to talk; telling Michael exactly what he should do about avoiding the surveillance teams. “I shall tell my wife—your aunt—that you were so tired I insisted on you taking my car and returning to see us tomorrow. When you don’t come I shall report you missing. It would be nice if we could meet again.” He picked up the telephone, knowing it was wired. Before dialling, Stentor asked Michael—once more—if he understood exactly what he must do?
“Everything.” Michael smiled at the old man’s audacity.
“They will not keep your passport, because you’re a Russian citizen.” Stentor was enjoying his plot. “You have all the papers? Good, they’ll examine those. Nothing else. Now.” He dialled, making two telephone calls.
Yekaterina’s clothes were scattered about the apartment. Her dress was crumpled on the dining-room floor, near her chair. Shoes and stockings made a trail through the main living room; slip, panties and bra led, in rotation, through the bedroom door—right up to the bed itself, where she now lay panting, with Jacob Vascovsky astride her, thrusting hard, as she groaned with the pain and joy of it.
Yekaterina adored her husband’s sexual strength; just as he respected her own sensuality—for often it was Yekaterina who took the initiative, grabbing and seducing her husband. But not tonight. Tonight had been a mutual melding of their bodies. Tonight they would ride each other; rest, and ride again into the small hours.
They were mounting to the greatest peak of pleasure when the phone rang, shrill by the bed.
Yekaterina’s body went limp. “Shit,” she said, as he
r husband groaned and picked up the instrument, answering with a sharp, breathless, “Yes?”
Major Badim stifled a laugh. Oh, what a story. You might almost be in the same room with them. He could hear Madame Vascovsky’s heavy breathing, and muttered oaths, in the background.
Quickly Badim pulled himself together. “The subject, Comrade General.”
“Yes.” Vascovsky’s breathing under control now.
“We’ve monitored two calls. He’s booked a room for his nephew. At the Metropole.”
“Then the job’s easier. He book in the correct name?”
“Piotr Kashvar.”
“Good. And the other call?”
“His driver. Said his nephew had flown in for a few days; that he was very tired and wanted to stay at an hotel: get some rest. He’s told the driver to bring the car to the apartment block. Take his nephew to the Metropole.”
“Then we’ve nothing to worry about. It’s all sewn up. Just let the surveillance teams know.”
“Comrade General.”
“And tell them to make sure he doesn’t slip away. That shouldn’t tax them over much.”
“No, Comrade General. Good night, Comrade General.”
“Badim, we’ll give them a couple of days. I want the niece to arrive. Then we can hold a family party. Just don’t let the surveillance people lose anybody. Understand?”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
At the Hotel Metropole they were most solicitous. After all, the man Kashvar was nephew to a most senior KGB officer. It didn’t matter that he looked as though he had come out of some back street, with the dirty raincoat, and his little cheap plastic zip bag. Any relative of General Vladimir Glubodkin had to be treated correctly.
They made a very quick examination of his documents, including the spravka, which proved, beyond any doubt, that Comrade Kashvar was on leave from his highly important job, as an experienced mining engineer, in the Urals. Then they gave him an exceptionally good room. In the Metropole that meant something. It was a first-rate hotel.