Golovanov, puffing a little, was helped aboard the helicopter. Chuykov and Grechko sat facing him. Noisily, the aircraft rose over the Zossen-Wünsdorf headquarters, and angled away north-westwards, over the trees and marshes and orange-tiled houses of Brandenburg, heading out of the district of Potsdam towards Magdeburg. Rain spattered the windows again, but ahead of them the sky began to clear, patches of watery eau-de-Nil between the grey lowering clouds.
‘Well,’ said Golovanov, easing himself back in his seat, which was a size too small for him. ‘What do you think of Comrade Yeremenko?’
‘He seems efficient,’ remarked Chuykov, guardedly. He knew what these interrogations by Golovanov could be like.
‘And you?’ Golovanov asked Grechko.
Grechko shrugged. ‘That’s my impression. Efficient.’
‘A good leader?’ asked Golovanov.
‘I think so.’
‘Faithful to the Army? Devoted to the Party? Patriotic? Keen? Aggressive?’
‘I think so,’ said Grechko.
‘Then,’ said Golovanov, ‘you are a fool. You see nothing; unless of course you are lying about what you think, and if you are doing that then you are even more of a fool. Yeremenko is unscrupulous, self-centred, and interested in nothing but his own career. He is patriotic only because he has to be patriotic to make his way to the upper echelons of the Army; he is superficially efficient, but a great deal of his efficiency is nothing more than shouting and screaming and sending out memoranda, all flash and no substance. You mark what I say, major, Yeremenko is a poor friend, a vicious enemy, and a lover of nobody and nothing, except for himself. Why do you think he told you about Inge meeting me in Haldensleben? To demean me, in front of your eyes, and to make himself look morally scrupulous, and efficient. Well, I shit on his moral scruples, and I shit on his efficiency. You mark what I say, he is no soldier. He is a military shark, without any human compunction. If you are ever tempted to do anything for him, in his efforts to dislodge me, then just think of what it would be like to work for such a bastard, night and day.’
It took them twenty-five minutes to reach Haldensleben, and then they were circling around the spire of St Magnus and over the lime trees that lined Magdeburg Strasse. They landed in the grounds of the small grey schloss which was the temporary headquarters of the 20th Guard Army; a dismal building with blank attic windows, and grime-encrusted statues of deer, and walls streaked with green and black from a hundred and seventy years of damp. There was a weedy lake there, in which ducks dabbled, and which reflected the row of SO-152 Akatsiya self-propelled howitzers which were parked nose-to-tail under the trees.
War again, thought Golovanov, climbing out of the helicopter. It never changes, none of us ever learn. There seems to be no way of avoiding it. The commander of the 20th Guard Army was waiting for him on the broken-down verandah of the schloss, accompanied by his divisional commanders. All were saluting, serious-faced, proud. Golovanov, as he saluted and shook hands, and embraced the Army commander, wondered for a moment if he were falling to pieces, as if the pressures of the last few months had all been too much for him.
‘Not a very happy place to make a headquarters,’ he remarked. ‘It seems to have an air of doom about it. Do you know what I mean? It reminds me of 1945.’
Major-General Zhukilov, a young, broad-faced man with a glossy brown moustache, said, ‘We shan’t be staying here long, comrade marshal. As soon as the summer exercises are over, we shall be back in Magdeburg.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Golovanov. He walked towards the open door of the schloss with the young generals following him; young soldiers who had scarcely been born in 1945. What did they know of bombing, and starvation, and German flamethrowers incinerating children where they stood? Well, they would soon experience the test of war, although they didn’t know it.
‘We have something special for lunch today,’ smiled Zhukilov. ‘Roast sucking-pigs, from the farm.’
‘Let me look at your rosters first,’ said Golovanov, testily.
After lunch, he excused himself and went to the private office which General Zhukilov had set aside for him. There wasn’t much there: a desk, a map of Western Europe, a glass decanter filled with stale bubbly water. A sharpened pencil, and a pad. He went to the window and looked down at the dark, scummy lake. Then he picked up the phone, and dialed Magdeburg 67 23 01. It was an outside line, so there was little danger of being intercepted. And, after all, why should anyone think of listening in? He was a marshal, on a routine inspection. He belched. The roast sucking-pig had been too fatty for him.
A voice said, ‘Sechs-sieben-zwo-drei-nul-eins.’
Golovanov cleared his throat, and then said, ‘Der scheckiger Pfeifer told me to call.’
‘Your number?’
‘Nine.’
‘You have the rat with you?’
‘The rat will be here later. By four o’clock, at the latest.’
‘Where?’
‘The Sachsen Hotel. Suite 301.’
‘You have the money?’
‘Yes, of course.’
There was a pause. ‘You will be there, too?’
‘Is that necessary?’ asked Golovanov. ‘It won’t be easy for me.’
‘What you are asking, my friend, will not be easy for us.’
‘Well, I appreciate that.’
‘Can you be there at seven?’
Golovanov thought for a moment. He was supposed to be having dinner with the SPETSNAZ commander at seven-thirty; but if he dressed beforehand he should be able to make it in time without any difficulty. He said, ‘Very well, then, seven. But please be prompt.’
‘We will do our best, number nine. It is not always easy.’
Golovanov put the phone down. He was beginning to wish that he had never agreed to smuggle Inge out of the country. He was intoxicated with her, certainly, but what would he get in return? She would go off to the United States and he’ would never see her again, in spite of all her promises of what she would do once everything was over. He had heard about California, how enticing it was. All those handsome movie actors, Richard Gere, James Brolin, all that sun and money and capitalist self-indulgence. Why should she ever think of coming back to Europe, to an old man whose sole attraction was that he was a marshal in the world’s most ruthless army?
Still, he had promised; and perhaps after all Inge would be true to her word. Perhaps this was really a way in which he could get rid of her, at last, so that she would no longer haunt him. Inge, the German ice-lady; thirty years too late; a million miles too far away.
Commander Zhukilov rapped politely at the office door. ‘Your car is here, marshal.’
‘Thank you,’ said Golovanov. Then, ‘You seem to have done well here, commander.’ With a vague wave of his hand, he indicated the schloss, the line-up of howitzers, the room.
Commander Zhukilov bowed his head, but said nothing.
*
The Sachsen Hotel was on Potsdam Platz, just to the east of Haldensleben’s main square. Rain had glossed the cobbles as Golovanov’s staff car creaked to a halt outside. He had already been back to the house where Commander Zhukilov was staying, a large modern farmhouse on the western outskirts of Haldensleben, to bath and change for dinner. Chuykov and Grechko were to meet him there later, at 7:45. He hoped desperately that there would be no delays.
Outside, the Sachsen Hotel was a flat-fronted, unprepossessing building with a dripping porch. Golovanov pushed his way through the heavy revolving doors into the lobby. There was a violently patterned carpet in red and gold, and a row of stags’ heads mounted on the wall. He could smell meat, and dust. A large white-haired woman approached him from the opposite side of the lobby. Her face looked as if it had been made by a clever schoolboy out of ageing potatoes. She inspected Golovanov’s uniform, the red and gold shoulder-boards, the dark spatters of rain on the khaki coat. ‘Guten Tag,’ she said, with a distinct lisp. ‘I cannot believe that you are looking for a room.’
‘
I am looking for somebody who is staying here. A Fräulein…’ his voice trailed off. She obviously knew who he meant. He reached into his pocket and produced a $10 bill, pressing, it into her palm as if he expected her to tell his fortune.
‘Come this way,’ she told him. She rattled back the folding gates of the lift. ‘There, press 3 for the third floor. She’s in 301.’
‘Danke sehr,’ nodded Golovanov.
The white-haired woman watched him fixedly until he had closed the inner door of the lift quite tight. Then he rose into the gloom; and for some reason he began to feel apprehensive, like a young officer being called up in front of his captain. The lift whined to a halt, and he stepped out.
Room 301 was at the far end of the corridor. From one of the rooms he passed on the way, he could hear music. Good Vibrations, by the Beach Boys. ‘I… I love the colourful clothes she wears.…’ He reached 301 and rapped on the yellow varnished wood with his knuckles.
‘Komm,’ said Inge’s voice. He turned the handle and found that the door was not locked. Inside, there were no lights. He took off his cap and stepped into the gloom of the evening, smiling. Inge was standing by the window, wearing a white blouse with padded shoulders and a slim blue skirt. She turned as he came walking across the room, and said, ‘Ah… not the best of hotels. I think your friend Yeremenko was trying to make a point.’
He held her cool fingers, kissed her. ‘Yeremenko is mean in his soul. One day he will do something so tight that he will disappear up his own ass.’
Inge said, ‘You’re right on time. I was worried they would keep you.’
Her shadowy profile was perfect against the blue evening light from the window; that curved forehead, that uptilted nose, those exquisitely curved lips. He sometimes wondered what it must be like, to be as beautiful as she was, to turn heads wherever she went.
Golovanov said, ‘Well… I try to be punctual. Have you heard from anyone yet? The scheckiger Pfeifer?’
Inge looked over his shoulder, and the way that she looked warned him that things were not quite what they appeared to be. He had fought in too many battles, ducked his head too often, stepped away too often. He had developed an instinct for danger both in war and in peace; fighting Germans and Chinese and Afghan rebels; and also fighting the Politburo, and their most ambitious minions. He raised his head, and he was about to turn around to see what Inge was looking at, when she said, sharply, ‘Don’t!’ Then, ‘Don’t move!’
Golovanov stayed where he was. ‘They’re here already?’ he asked her.
She nodded, without looking at him. He heard footsteps squeaking on the floorboards behind him.
‘Can I look now?’ he asked, but Inge said, ‘No.’
‘Very well,’ said Golovanov; then, in a louder voice, in pidgin German, ‘Gentlemen, the rat is here. Can you help her? I have the money all ready.’
A blond-haired young man in impenetrable dark glasses came around into Golovanov’s line of vision. Golovanov would never have recognized him again in an identification parade, but he would have recognized his gun. An Ingram Model 10, a small black shoebox with a short barrel poking out of it, but capable of firing 1,100 rounds a minute, one .45-calibre bullet every .05 of a second. Golovanov, without being bidden to do so, raised his hands.
‘Something is wrong?’ he asked, thickly. ‘I have all the money here.’
The young man shook his head. ‘Nothing is wrong. Marshal Golovanov. Everything is working according to plan.’
‘Then, you can get Inge out of East Germany for me?’
The young man nodded.
‘Well, that is some relief, then,’ said Golovanov, and lowered his hands. ‘Would you like your money now? I have to leave. They will be expecting me at seven-thirty.’
‘Yes,’ said the young man. ‘But, they will have a very long wait.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You are coming with us,’ the young man told him.
Golovanov’s mouth opened and closed. Then he laughed. Then he stopped laughing. ‘I am a marshal of the Soviet Army,’ he said. ‘You cannot possibly expect me to come along with you.’
‘Well,’ said the young man, ‘it is either that, or this,’ and he lifted the muzzle of the Ingram machine-gun, and pointed if towards Golovanov’s head. ‘Have you ever seen a man hit by one of these? This is the 10, with the heavier round. I am not averse to decorating this hotel room red.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Golovanov demanded. ‘Inge?’
Inge raised her finger to her lips. ‘It was the only way, Timofey. Now, please hurry. Your aides will start looking for you soon, and we need all the time that we can get.’
‘Where are you taking me?’ Golovanov demanded. ‘This is preposterous!’
‘We are going west,’ the young man told him. ‘We have a couple of friends on duty at the border post at Helmstedt; they are waiting for us now. You will be in Bonn by nightfall.’
Golovanov said, in a throaty voice, ‘You have no idea what you are doing. If you try to take me away, you will provoke the most serious diplomatic incident in years! You are mad, both of you!’
Inge came up to Golovanov and took his hand. Her eyes were pellucid; unreadable; the eyes of a girl who has decided years ago that she will be on nobody’s side but her own. ‘Timofey,’ she coaxed him.
‘You must let me go,’ said Golovanov.
The young man said, ‘You have two choices; and fifteen seconds in which to make up your mind which choice to accept. Either, you come with us to Bonn; or, we kill you now. We have no time to waste. The choice is yours.’
Golovanov looked at Inge, and smiled soulfully. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘You have me well and truly trapped, don’t you?’
Inge smiled, and squeezed his hand. ‘You will always be my bear, Timofey.’
‘You think that you can get away with this?’
Inge nodded, still smiling. ‘We would have preferred to take Yeremenko. After all, he knows more about the movements of the Western Strategic Direction than you do, more of the details. But, we are not dissatisfied. You know the strategy, don’t you? You know the master-plan. We can find out the tactical details from some of your junior officers.’
Golovanov turned to the young man with the Ingram. ‘What do you call yourself, young man?’ he asked.
‘Dichter,’ said the young man, calmly.
‘Well, Dichter, you had better shoot me,’ said Golovanov. ‘I am a soldier. I am prepared to die at all times; that is a soldier’s lot. A life of enforced idleness, qualified only by the knowledge that death may come instantly and violently at the most incongruous times.’
Dichter lifted the Ingram and squinted down it at Golovanov’s head. There was a moment’s pause. Golovanov turned to Inge. But Inge backed away, and that was an unequivocal sign to Golovanov that she knew that Dichter really would pull the trigger. Golovanov had a conscious thought that his whole life was not passing in front of him, that he was considering nothing else but his own survival. No thoughts of Katia and the children; no merry memories of military academy, the night they had nailed their sergeant to the floor. Only calculated panic, the freezing of the nervous system, as if he had been drenched in iced vodka.
After a moment, Golovanov cautiously raised his hand, and said, ‘Very well. I will come with you. Are you happy now?’
Twelve
That afternoon, the President was napping in his private bedroom when Morton Lock came in and gently shook his shoulder. The President opened one eye and stared at his security adviser as if he had been dreaming about instituting the guillotine for minor infringements of the Chief Executive’s rest periods. After all, he was three years older than Richard Nixon, and Richard Nixon had long gone, back to Saddle River, and his new Lanier word-processor, for peace and relaxation and yet another profitable book on politics; while the President was still burdened with the cares of a nuclear world, and GRINGO, and nightmares about 1988.
How the hell was he going to exp
lain GRINGO to the Irish?
Morton said, ‘Mr President? We’ve just had word from Copenhagen.’
The President said nothing; but continued to watch Morton with one hostile eye.
Morton said, ‘Fidel Castro has agreed to democratic elections. It’s official. The package is complete.’
There was a long pause. Then the President reared himself out of his blue and white comforter like a graceless walrus, and scratched his scalp all over, with repulsive enthusiasm. Morton Lock made a tight face and stood back a little.
‘By God, then, that’s it,’ said the President. ‘That’s it!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And General Oliver’s still happy?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All right. Good. Give me a few minutes to dress, and then get the Kremlin on the horn.’
‘Yes, sir. Do you want to talk to the British as well?’
‘Let’s just find out what kind of a time framework we’re dealing with first. The British thing is going to be tricky, especially the way the Soviets want to handle it.’
Morton raised his hands in one of those nervous, hopeless gestures like Stan Laurel. ‘I don’t think we ought to leave it too long, sir.’
The President stood up, his belly straining against the front of his orange silk pyjamas. ‘I don’t think there’s any need for haste, Morton. Sometimes it’s easier to turn the world upside-down than it is to get a decent cup of coffee.’
Morton was unsure whether that was an instruction to find the President a cup of coffee, or whether it was nothing more than a philosophical remark. He said, ‘The strategic side is all tied up, anyway. Admiral Truscott was concerned about the British forces in the Falklands. He thought they might decide to hold out on their own; and let’s face it, they do have some considerable firepower down there. But the Second Fleet could borrow Task Force 60 from the Sixth Fleet for a while; at least until GRINGO is complete; and that should give him sufficient backup.’
‘All right,’ the President nodded. ‘Can you get the Joint Chiefs down here later this evening? I want a complete picture.’
Sacrifice Page 17