In the Company of Spies

by Stephen Barlay

  “Good. You’ll now have to try to be more positively helpful to us. Otherwise we’ll introduce you to Fidel. He’s a Scolopendra gigantea, a most distinguished member of the arthropod class Chilopoda. He’s a uniquely large and magnificent specimen from the East Indies, and he has these venomous little fangs.” Mann removed the gloves. “Now, when I say ‘venomous,’ I don’t mean fatal, because his bite hardly ever kills directly, but, and it’s a big but, it can cause probably the worst pain anybody’s ever had. Some people who were bitten found suicide preferable to suffering. Others smashed up their skulls in a mad effort to relieve the pain at least temporarily. But we wouldn’t want you to do any such stupid things. That’s why you’re surrounded by those lovely cushions, right, George?”

  “Yeah, yeah, now let’s get on with it and get out of here.”

  “A fine intention, George, but you forget that these things can’t be rushed. Mr. Rust must understand what’s going to happen. And he wants to understand — don’t you, Mr. Rust? Or may I call you Helm? Perhaps Helmut?”

  Helmut. The word and its pronunciation conjured up memories of his father and Yelena. That first meeting in Moscow. Do you care about peace? Cut out the big words, sweetheart. If they get you, you’ll tell them everything. Sorry, Yelena, the time’s come.

  Hardly any of Mann’s voice penetrated Rust’s ears. When he did not watch the mouth, he heard nothing. Only Yelena’s voice. Asking about the girl in Leningrad. What happened to her? Do you still love her?

  “Anna,” Rust shouted, firmly convinced that he was whispering. “She knows nothing. You promised to let her go. We made a deal, Mann.”

  “A deal? What deal? Do you know about any deals, George?”

  “Yeah. He wants to tell you everything.”

  “Okay, let’s try.”

  The temptation was tremendous. Rust longed to pour out everything he could think of. But would they now believe the truth? Or would they accept lies that there was no conspiracy, the information came from an individual, and his father was not involved, that he could not describe the cabby, and that they gave him no proof?

  Mann repeated his earlier questions, then introduced some new ones. These revealed that he had detailed information that must have come from Moscow.

  “You didn’t leave Moscow by taxi, did you?”

  “We did.”

  “You left by ambulance.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Where did you abandon the ambulance?”

  “Will you let Mrs. Repson go?”

  “Okay, Helm, you’re a good in-law. Now, where did you abandon the ambulance?”

  “At the railway station.”

  “Where?”

  “Kolchugino.”

  “Impossible. The ambulance would have been seen at the Kolchugino checkpoint when coming off the Ivanovo road. But it wasn’t.”

  “It’s amazing what you CIA boys know.”

  “And you’re impertinent, Helmut.” Mann stepped closer to the bed.

  George leaned over Rust to speak right into his face: “We’ll send Fidel on a walkie-talkie. He walkie, you talkie!” He found the joke side-splittingly funny. “And perhaps we’ll send Fidel for another walkie-talkie on Mrs. Repson’s cunt!” He guffawed and picked up the gardening gloves.

  “No,” Rust protested. “Why don’t you ask more questions?”

  “Because you’re wasting our time with lies,” said Mann. “But I’ll give you a fair chance. We’ll give you a jab which is just a diluted version of Fidel’s original.” He picked a shiny metal box out of the suitcase and filled a syringe with some dark liquid. “I guess you’ll have a minute to talk to us before you go mad. If in that minute you give some satisfactory answers, I’ll give you a second jab to knock you out for a few hours until the worst pain’s gone. When you wake up, we’ll ask you for some more details. And you’ll answer. Or else it won’t be a little jab but a real walkie-talkie, right, George?”

  “Right.”

  Mann turned his back on him. Rust tried to lean forward, but his head was taped firmly to the cushions and the bed. He felt no more than a pinprick in his groin. Then nothing. Just the colic. It squeezed a few more drops of liquid out of him. Then an urge to howl. But he could not. A gripping, nerve-writhing torment spread fast with the rushing blood through every vein from his groin. His teeth crunched and cracked. His arms and feet strained against the ropes and wires holding him until his skin split open and blood spurted in a mad effort of multiple self-amputation. And the pain was still increasing.

  Mann was already firing questions. He knew he had to be quick. Rust made a superhuman effort to separate his teeth and squeeze words out with the gale of agony that rose from his lungs. He did not know what exactly he was saying. There was no control. Words ran out freely. The cart came from the Red Banner kilkhoz in Aleksandrov. So did Fyodor, the old man who drove the van to Moscow. Florian was in love with Yelena. The Foster passport came from her. But she must have swapped it for the Craig passport in the last second to cover her tracks. She gave him the evidence to go with the message. “Where?”

  “At the airport.”

  “When?”

  “Just before the captain died.”

  “Where’s the evidence now?”

  “At Idlewild!” Rust screamed. “In a plastic bag.”

  “Where?”

  “In Lost Property.”

  “How can you reclaim it?”

  Rust tried to answer. There was nothing in this world he wanted more than to answer fast and truthfully. But the urge to wail was stronger. And it left no room for any other sound in his throat. He was squirming nonstop as if driven to dance by machine-gun bullets, and he would have smashed his head into anything only too gladly to stop the pain at any cost.

  “Give him the jab,” Mann urged George.

  “Didn’t you want to ask anything else?” George broke off the tip of an ampule and filled a second syringe. “He didn’t tell you how to reclaim the bag.”

  “Later. He can’t take any more now.”

  George sought out a vein and injected the antidote with expert firmness. The effect was almost instantaneous.

  “I thought the dilution was weaker,” Mann mumbled. He looked at his watch. “We had only fifty-seven seconds. I’ll complain about this.”

  Rust sank into comatose sleep, free of pain, questions, decisions and self-accusation.

  “He’ll be out for several hours, but you keep an eye on him, George,” said Mann. “I’ll make the call to the office.”

  Tuesday, October 2

  Kennedy and OAS foreign ministers issue communique: Cuban people must be helped to regain their freedom; “Sino-Soviet intervention in Cuba” and expansion of Communism from Cuba remain most urgent problems of hemisphere. Commander Schirra, fifth American in space, completes six-orbit mission. General Taylor is sworn in as Chairman of U.S Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  *

  ONLY TWO HOURS AFTER RUST’S ORDEAL IN NEW YORK, the morning rush hour traffic was at its height on the Moscow-Ivanovo road. The Moscow-registered black car was delayed, but Major Boychenko was determined not to be unduly angry. After all, at long last, things were moving again. It was 9:30 when his car rolled through the gates of the Red Banner kilkhoz in Aleksandrov.

  A few minutes later, old Fyodor Galakhov was summoned to talk to a small, fat and friendly civilian in the back seat of the black car. On demand, Fyodor produced his internal passport. He knew he was not supposed ever to be without it, and he had always complied with the rule. Recently, however, he had not done it only because he was a good citizen, but also because of the new, special value of the document: it had now a truly cherished and enviable “permission to move to Moscow” stamped on one of the blank pages reserved for internal visas and other spravki. It was that kindly big bear of a man from the GRU who had arranged it for him. In return, Fyodor only had to take part in that little charade of swapping his cart for a v
an and driving the van to Moscow. He would have done it for nothing. Anybody would have done it if asked by an officer of the GRU. Fyodor had nothing to fear. Not until this fat civilian asked the ominous question: “Do you want to live in Moscow, then?”

  That could spell disaster. For it was known to all that only a fool would not want to live in Moscow, where life was better and easier, and where all the unavailable might sometimes be obtainable, but the invitation to declare his intention brought the Russian Catch-22 into play. For if he said he did want to live in Moscow, it might indicate that he was trying to run away from the small community where he and perhaps his crimes/sins/hostile views/mere laziness were too noticeable. But to claim that he did not want to live in Moscow would reveal that he was trying to hide from the capital’s more alert authorities and that he was banking on the inefficiency of the local party and militia that might fail to discover that he was an enemy of the people.

  Fyodor had no choice this time. The spravka in his passport revealed his intention. And the next trap, he knew, lay only one question away. “Yes, it’s an honor to have the permission.”

  “Indeed. I’m glad you see it that way. And may I ask where you intend to live in Moscow?”

  So there it was. Catch-23, “I shall apply to the Moscow Soviet to grant me a room or the share of a room, as they see fit.”

  “Naturally. Because you’ve already got a job in Moscow, I presume.”

  Fyodor did not answer.

  “Haven’t you got a job? Oh.”

  “I, I was told that I can get a job there if I’m already a Moscow resident.”

  “But you can become a resident only if you have a job there. You must know that. Yes, I’m sure you do. So the question is, how do you hope to get that first job or room? Do you have friends in high places? Are you supplying them with a little fruit and meat and vegetables? Perhaps some illegally brewed vodka?”

  Fyodor began to protest his innocence, but Major Boychenko — who never bothered to tell him his name or rank — cut him short. “I know, your friend must be the one who arranged this spravka for you. Correct? What else did he promise, and for what favors?”

  Fyodor knew no more than that the man, who called himself Florian, carried a card with the letters GRU printed on it. It would have certainly been an unimaginable impertinence for him to ask for a closer examination of the card or demand Comrade Florian’s full name.

  “You’re not very cooperative, Fyodor Galakhov.” Boychenko grinned. “It might be best if you came to Moscow with me. We’ll see what accommodation we can find for you.”

  *

  George viewed Mann gravely and planned his revenge. He could not yet think of any definite form, but he knew that one day, somehow, Mann would have to pay for all this. For Mann had slept through the early part of the night, then again through dawn and early morning, and now ordered him to make some breakfast. So George rummaged in the cardboard box, found some food and took it to the kitchen. He was inclined to burn Mann’s toast, but abandoned the idea because he would only be told to make some more.

  To wake up Rust turned out to be a major effort. The persistent din in his ears helped to protect him from the outside world. His entire system was determined not to let him leave the refuge he had found in sleep. Eventually, George had to give him a caffeine injection, and even then they had to walk him up and down to keep him awake while some more questions could be asked. Rust answered them slowly and with great effort. He knew he had no choice left anymore. But his greatest struggle was to think, think clearly and fast if at all possible. He told Mann about the plastic bag. About its contents. About the way of producing identification: the half-finished letter to Hal.

  “It would be easier if you took me with you to Idlewild,” Rust mumbled.

  “Why?”

  “It would be easier to get the bag.”

  “If you told me the truth about it, I would have no problems. And I do hope, in your interest in the first place, that you did tell me the truth.”

  Although Rust would not offer a good reason, he tried to persuade Mann again and again, until inevitably, suspicions were aroused.

  “You don’t think that in your state you could get away from me on the way, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you so keen to go?”

  “It would be better.”

  “Why?”

  “It would be better.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” George said with a yawn that threatened to burst his lungs. The air in the room made his face distort: Rust stank as badly as the hole in the frozen ground he had once helped to fill with bodies. “Even if you could get away somehow from Idlewild, I’d still be here, holding Mrs. Repson! You remember that, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes. I do.” Rust almost added, “Thank you.” For that was all he wanted to know. That Anna was still held somewhere in the house. Left alone with George, he might have a chance. Half a chance. If, somehow, he could stay awake.

  Mann prepared to leave.

  “Do we let him sleep?” asked George.

  Mann hesitated. “Yes. Why not? From now on he’ll talk to us anytime, won’t you, Helmut?”

  Rust did not answer. His body went limp, his eyes closed, and his urine flowed freely down his legs. George was disgusted. He let Rust collapse on the floor. Although before leaving for the airport Mann had told him to clean up Rust a little, he decided not to touch him. Why should he? Why should a man soon to die need to be clean? Death in the warmth of his own shit might even be comforting to him. George thought he was nodding only because he was in full agreement with himself. He was, in fact, falling asleep.

  Rust forced himself to open his eyes. He knew that Mann had left the house, and now he saw George’s gaping mouth, drooling in an exhausted stupor. This was his chance. Better than the half-chance he had hoped for. He raised himself on one elbow. His entire body responded to the effort with shiverish trembling. Keep warm. And sleep. Just for a few minutes. He noticed George’s watch. 11:35. If only he could sleep for five minutes. No. Don’t sleep. Don’t sleep. Don’t.

  It was the cold that woke him up. George was snoring, and Rust was pleased that he could hear it. George’s hand was in the same position as before, hanging over the side of the armchair. Rust looked at the watch. 12:45. Alarmed, he moved. He could not remember how long it had taken Anna to drive here from the airport. Mann might be back soon. Rust knew he could deal easily with George, find Anna and get away in time — if only he had the strength to get up and move. He grabbed the edge of the bed and tried to pull himself up. It seemed an impossible task. His arm itself felt too heavy for him to support. Dryness burned his lips and glued his tongue to his palate. He closed his eyes. Pull. Pull. His grip slipped and he was back on the floor with a thump. George turned his head but did not wake up. Rust rested a couple of minutes, fighting all the way not to fall asleep again. The constant trembling of his hands made him realize that he might not be able to deal with George even if he managed to get up and over to the armchair. If he punched George, it might not be more than a tickle on the thin, pointed chin. And he could not hope to be able to lift a chair to hit him on the head.

  He noticed the Plexiglas box on the coffee table. Whatever it contained, it might be his only ally. The lid was on, the stick lay across it. And that table was low enough to be reached from the floor. So all Rust needed was to be able to crawl to it. George moved. But he was only shifting his uncomfortable posture. Rust decided it would be a waste of effort to watch George: if he woke up too soon, he would have all the advantages.

  Inch by inch he approached the table. He looked up — the sight made him recoil in disgust. Inside the lid, curved like a new moon, a huge centipede hung motionless, upside down. It bore no resemblance to the rubberized ones used by children for pranks. It was thicker than two fingers and as long as Rust’s forearm. Its antennae quivered, then the whole segmented body moved sinuously. To stand up, pick up t
he ghastly creature and drop it in George’s shirt at the neck would have been easy — except that Rust could not trust his own balance. If he fell, he might wake up George or drop the centipede on himself. He would have to use the stick. With that he might reach the largest and easiest target: the bare expanse of face with the gaping mouth.

  When Rust lifted the lid, the centipede moved again. A pair of fangs appeared, poised to attack. Rust was desperate to allow himself a breather, but he had no idea how fast the centipede might be able to move. He lowered the lid to the floor, forced the stick under the slowly stretching body and began to raise it. It was a maddening balancing act. Raising himself on one elbow, Rust was sweating profusely. The last inches up were agony. At the end, Rust could not see whether the head or the tail hovered above George’s mouth. He shook the stick a little — and felt it go lighter as the extra weight dropped. He fell back and his eyes closed. There was nothing he could do.

  The silence must have lasted a second or two. Then a horrific cry of anguish broke through the din in his ears loud and clear. George was on his feet, tearing the centipede away, dancing in a craze as if hoping to shake out the spreading pain. He yelled at Rust inarticulately as he noticed his prisoner on the floor. With one hand he was lacerating his own flesh at his mouth, with the other he was reaching for his pocket. Violent convulsions ruined his coordination. At last he managed to pull out a snubnosed gun, but he could not hold it straight. He began shooting wildly, aimlessly, collapsed, then banged his head several times against the wall. Rust crawled toward the door. There was yet another explosion. He turned. George was lying in a pool of blood. Rust had no way to tell whether he had blown his brains out accidentally or deliberately. Sweating and shivering, Rust made his way slowly across the room. He picked up the gun, but it kept slipping out of his hand. He looked around. The centipede was nowhere in sight. He only hoped he would not meet it on his long and arduous way to the door.