Death's Foot Forward

by George B Mair

  ‘Your watch. Doesn’t it come before underwear?’ interrupted Sokolnikov.

  Grant looked at his wrist. Every move he had made still ached his forearm but the pain had settled into a throb which was bearable. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask your help.’

  The Russian was apologetic. ‘I had forgotten about your bone.’ His fingers meanwhile were unhooking the patent clip of Grant’s self-winding Swiss timepiece, an intricate etched gold movement fitted into a case of platinum and rock crystal which he had bought whilst in an extravagant mood three years earlier. ‘An expensive trinket this. It must be wonderful to be a capitalist.’ His eyes were mocking as he laid it on the table beside the note-case, and then, swiftly, gripped Grant’s wrist, feeling for the pulse. A moment later he looked up with the faintest sign of admiration lightening his podgy face. ‘A steady 68. Either you have a clear conscience or else you don’t have any nerves at all. But you look ridiculous standing there in underwear. Let’s get it off, shall we?’

  Grant had strong views about underwear and had long argued that nothing could beat Norwegian string mesh for both summer and winter. He detested floppy underpants ‘banging against his thighs’ as he put it, and preferred the snug skintight feel of string mesh. He peeled them off without hesitation and tossed them on to the chair beside his suit. Nudity neither offended nor embarrassed him and he knew that he could strip better than average, and certainly better than any other man in the room.

  Sokolnikov pointed to a small foxy looking official in a slate grey uniform who was holding a bath-robe. ‘Now put that on and this man will take you to my examination room.’

  He was then escorted along the tiled corridor and up a short flight of stairs into a suite which smelt slightly of carbolic. A disinterested elderly woman in white coat was waiting and an X-ray machine stood in one quarter of the room. The doctor pointed briefly to an examination couch and the warder whipped off the bath-robe as Grant lay down and prepared to do exactly as he was told. An auroscope explored his ears, and even the depths of his nostrils were examined. A special instrument looked above his palate and each tooth was X-rayed in turn. He then pointed to his forearm and the doctor nodded curtly, placed a casette underneath and took a picture, giving it along with the others, to a short plump woman who had appeared in nurse’s uniform and who seemed to be a radiographer. Every inch of his body was carefully palpated for possible capsules inserted under the skin and then they slipped an instrument into his gut, missing nothing, he thought bitterly as he forced himself to relax and suffer the pain of a high exploration.

  At last he was left alone, but the warder still clung to the bath-robe until the doctor returned to the examination room. She was holding a wet X-ray plate of Grant’s forearm and pointed to a hairline crack of the left radius. ‘Da,’ she grunted and made the motion of putting his arm into a sling. The warder then offered the coat and a moment later escorted him back to Sokolnikov who was waiting in his office, a pile of brown cigarette stubs rising on the thick porcelain ash-tray and still sipping tea.

  The Russian remained polite but Grant detected an edge of exasperation in his manner. ‘Either you’ve been telling the truth or else you’re an extremely clever man. The doctor says that everything is normal to date. So only one thing remains. You won’t like it but, as I told you earlier, you may gain in experience. You will be given a purgative which may upset you quite a bit for twenty-four hours, so there will be no Maly theatre tomorrow night. Instead you’ll be living here in one of Lubianka’s better bedrooms until we are certain that you have swallowed nothing important.’ He rose abruptly to his feet. ‘Your belongings haven’t been damaged very much and you can always get the seams of your wallet restitched. Meanwhile I’ll leave you and meet you here tomorrow night.’

  He was given time to dress and then the warder took him to a nearby bedroom and pointed to a chest of drawers. A suit of hard cotton pyjamas lay in the top drawer and a doctor was waiting with two capsules and a glass of water. The bed was regulation hospital issue with a hard mattress and thick sheet, thin army blankets and a harsh pillow. But it was better than some he had known and he forced himself to make the best of things.

  The purge began to work before morning but during the later afternoon his cramps began to settle, leaving him lightheaded, longing for endless glasses of fluid and with a tongue which tasted like rubber. In the evening he managed to eat the dinner which was brought to his bedroom and had to admit that by Soviet standards they had treated him quite well. The thick vegetable soup was sour in his mouth and the meat even more tasteless than in the National Hotel. But there was a bottle of mineral water and a bowl of apples, some dry biscuits and a plate of creamy cheese followed by a pot of thick black coffee which, more than anything, helped to bring him back to normal.

  At midnight he heard a clock striking and found it difficult to realise that less than twenty-four hours had passed since Maya had walked out of the National. But not out of his life, he swore. And he was glad that he had already committed himself to returning in the spring.

  Shortly before one o’clock, the warder, by a show of pantomime, ordered him to dress, but when he asked for a razor the man just laughed and muttered ‘nichevo’. Back in Sokolnikov’s office he felt an unshaven wreck, but the Russian concentrated on those things which mattered. ‘It is my duty to tell you that nothing incriminating has been discovered, so you can leave Lubianka within a very short time. But before you go I want to make myself clear. I stand by everything which has been said. You can stay until your visa expires and you may return at any time. But if you break the law you will be severely punished, and in order to show you how you will be punished I’m going to let you see what happens to spies and war-mongers.’

  He whipped open the curtains at the window and pointed to the courtyard. It was now flood-lit by four powerful lamps, one in each corner, and a squad of soldiers was standing at ease twenty paces away from one wall. The officer in command was glancing at his watch and a moment later five men in prison uniform were brought out under guard.

  ‘Japanese,’ grunted Sokolnikov. ‘Collected during the past four months and condemned under military law.’

  Grant detested executions, and although he had become almost a professional killer himself at times, he still distinguished between the callous formality of State murder, as he called it, and the death which awaited the end of a man-hunt or a fight in hot blood. It seemed an eternity before the prisoners had been lined up against the huge stones of the dreary square below. He saw that they were taking it calmly. There was no nonsense about binding the eyes and their faces seemed parchment-like against the glare.

  Sokolnikov again glanced at his watch. ‘Two minutes to go,’ he smiled, ‘it is good for them to suffer a little right to the end. The Soviet Union is a good friend, but a bad enemy. You may find that the soldiers are not very good marksmen. Death doesn’t always come easily to people like these out there.’

  At last the officer in charge lifted his service revolver and snapped out a series of orders. The guns were broken, loaded and brought to the shoulder. Then another two snarled orders. There was an erratic series of shots and the Japs toppled slowly to the ground, one after the other. Like ninepins, thought Grant in disgust. The officer looked at them for a few seconds and then strode forward to put a shot through each of their skulls. The five short sharp cracks ended with the execution squad snapping to attention and being marched off the square in parade ground style whilst another huddle of men in prison uniform straggled out under guard. ‘To clean up the mess and bury them,’ explained Sokolnikov easily, as he dropped the curtain again and sat down. ‘So be advised, Doctor, because that is exactly what will happen to you if ever you start anything here. And that is the best tip from any local you’ve ever had.’

  Grant looked at him steadily. ‘Does trying to see Maya Koren count as a crime against the State?’

  The Russian smiled evilly and his steel dentures seemed to sparkle with venom
as he replied. ‘I give you my word that if I ever see or hear of you speaking to her again I’ll have you killed so slowly that you’ll wish you had been shot tonight beside these Japs.’

  ‘So now I may go?’

  The Russian nodded. ‘You may. And I’ve no doubt we’ll meet again.’

  ‘Do I get the car back to my hotel?’

  Sokolnikov looked at him in astonishment. ‘Sometimes I do admire your nerve, Doctor Grant. It is outside.’

  The guard left on duty motioned him to the door and slowly he walked back downstairs to the side entrance where the same Zim car was waiting with an unshaven driver at the wheel, his shirt sleeves rolled up and reading Izvestia. He pointed to the back. Lubianka loomed tall above him and a shaft of moonlight was twinkling against the blackness of the window frames. Less than twenty minutes later he was back in his room at the National, lying on his bed and methodically removing a stubbly beard with his favourite electric razor, clumsily manipulated by one hand. His mind was clear on everything which mattered, there were almost thirty-six hours left before taking off for Paris, but first he would sleep and tomorrow would be another day.

  Chapter Three – Here there is always death before love . . .

  Grant had arranged for breakfast to be served sharply at nine o’clock. The waiter was a small stout man with a placid pasty face and piercing blue eyes. On the stroke of nine a.m. he opened the door and padded in as usual, once again drawing the long tapestry curtains wide open to show the Kremlin gleaming ochre and red in the morning sunlight. It was always the same waiter and he spoke bad American but never tried to make conversation until he had arranged a table by the window, removed the cosy from a boiled egg and lifted a teapot, ready to pour.

  Grant watched him, as he had watched for over three weeks, whilst another part of his mind brooded about the past. He was still tired, and his arm felt heavy, but he gently moved his fingers and wrist to prove that no complications had set in, although a nerve had been contused and at times tingling sensations still shot up and down his fingers like surges of electricity.

  The waiter finally lifted the pot. ‘You take it like usual, Mr. Grant? Not so strong, eh?’

  Grant nodded briefly and the waiter smiled with understanding. ‘Bad night, eh? Maybe you like the first glass before you get up.’ Then he smiled. ‘You goin’ away tomorrow?’

  Grant tried to appear friendly. Tipping was supposed to be forbidden in the National but he guessed that the fellow was working up to a touch. ‘Don’t worry, waiter,’ he grunted, ‘you’ve done me ten dollars worth of good this last month and I’ll see you get it. Buy the children something in the doll store.’

  The man bent his head but looked him straight in the eyes and then winked. ‘Mr. Grant. There is no tipping here. It isn’t necessary. In the Soviet Union workers get a lot of lolly, so you just keep your ten dollars.’ As he was speaking he pointed towards the breakfast tray. For the first time in over three weeks the tiny knitted nest still covered the egg. ‘You just have good breakfast and enjoy the view. You can see a lot from here.’

  He lay for another five minutes in bed. The egg cover clearly concealed something important and the waiter seemed friendly, but his words hinted that the room was wired for sound and his crack about a view suggested a peep hole. In Russia all things were possible, friends as well as police spies.

  He rose and put on his favourite cobalt-blue silk dressing-gown and sauntered across to the window. The shrubs and trees of Alexandrovsky Gardens were already tinted with autumn russet, a procession of ant-like pedestrians was crossing the broad square behind a traffic policeman, and two elderly women were selling chrysanthemums near the door of Hotel Moskva. Traffic was already rushing round the corner of Gorky Street in a wide circle towards the little hill which led up to Red Square and late students were dashing for classes at the old University a few blocks away.

  He sensed that he was being watched and turned towards the bathroom. As always the plug was a misfit and once again he wondered how a nation which had learned how to blow up the world had yet to discover how to keep water inside a tub. He laid his usual English halfcrown over the hole and weighed it down with an onyx paper-weight lifted from the table desk in his bedroom. As he turned on the hot tap he wondered what would come out, and smiled when he found it belching steam and scalding hot water for only the fourth time during his entire stay.

  He then carried the breakfast tray through to a cork-topped stool beside the bath. Steam was still coming out in full force so once more he returned to the bedroom, stood for a moment at the window and glanced at a paper-back whilst allowing the bathroom to fill with steam. It was beginning to waft into his bedroom when he rushed back to screw off the hot water, open a ventilator and grope for a towel. Visibility was down to a few feet when he fumbled around the tray, poured out some more tea and managed to whip the egg cosy off. A tightly-rolled ball of paper was inside. Deftly he concealed it in the palm of his hand, flapped the towel to help clear the air and slipped the paper wad into his dressing-gown pocket.

  He then closed the window and turned on some cold water. It seemed possible to balance his breakfast tray on the transverse soap rack, and he found to his surprise, that breakfast in the bath was more enjoyable than he had expected. He lingered over the egg, for once good and hard instead of running soft as had so often happened on other mornings, and even the bread seemed almost up to standard. They had remembered to serve a portion of marmalade . . . or orange jam as they called it in Moscow . . . and even the lard-white butter was more tasteful than usual.

  It was after ten before he finally stood up, shook himself like a dog and reached for the thick towelling. With his stiff arm it was still difficult to dry himself thoroughly but at last he began to think of the day ahead. In the end he chose his favourite town or country two-piece check with a snug well-worn antelope skin, cut-away waistcoat and a pair of strong walking shoes.

  He met his interpreter downstairs in the Intourist lounge and was able to book another seat at the Maly for that evening. He also arranged for a taxi to Zagorsk and then sent a telegram to his housekeeper in Paris confirming that he would be home for late dinner on the following day.

  ‘And how will you pass the time until evening?’ asked the interpreter, a young lady who worshipped Yuri Gagarin and all the other new-style heroes of the space race.

  He bought a copy of the Daily Worker whilst he figured a reply and then explained that he was feeling tired, that it might do him good just to go back up again to the Kremlin, stroll for a while in the rose gardens, make another visit to the Armoury and take a few more photographs of the churches.

  ‘But you ought to work. It is your last day and we still haven’t done a proper sight-seeing tour of the city.’

  ‘Put it this way,’ he said slowly. ‘If you come along I’ll try to flirt with you. Today is my holiday from everything.’

  ‘Be serious,’ said the girl. ‘Do you want me as a guide or not?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not.’

  ‘Very well. Why not say so? You waste my time.’ As she swished off in one of those bursts of temper for which Intourist guides are famous he packed another pipe, checked that his precious wad of paper was still in his waistcoat pocket where he had smuggled it whilst dressing and then sauntered outside to the taxi.

  A partition separated him from the driver and behind the cover of an old Esquire he unfolded the tiny ball and spread it out in front of him. It was a letter from Maya, which he read until every word had been memorised. Later he burned it in a toilet at Zagorsk and washed the ashes away. She had been visited by the Secret Police. She had been suspended for four months from Bolshoi and would therefore miss the London-Paris trip. She doubted if she would again be allowed to visit any country west of Berlin. She was also afraid that Sokolnikov had something else up his sleeve but was not yet sure what it might be. She had been ordered to stay at home until further notice and would be living alone in the old wooden dacha which h
e had once visited. She knew that the house would be watched and ordered him not to try and see her. She still loved him and wished that she could show him how much he meant to her. And he must not ask questions of the man who had delivered her note.

  He lunched at Zagorsk in a state restaurant, made a quick visit to the monastery and then ordered an early return to Moscow. By mid-afternoon he was again at the Kremlin, keeping to his time-table and taking photographs of Uspensky and Blagoveshchensky cathedrals before returning to the National in time for a quick dinner before the theatre. He had been followed all the way, but they were tailing him expertly and there had been none of the open shadowing which he had heard about in earlier years.

  Although he did not understand more than a score of words in Russian Grant had visited the Maly several times and been deeply moved by the realism of its actors, but on this occasion a grim propaganda-filled tragedy of Ostrovsky waded its tragic way through to a standing ovation for the cast by a thousand stolidly clapping comrades and left him feeling depressed. The message was out-moded. There was no new playwright to describe the mystery of a modern tyranny worse than anything the Tsars had shown, and the robot-like audience brought back memories of Frankenstein, Dracula and Big Brother in a nightmare mix up which sickened him.

  When the curtain finally dropped he collected his coat. The evening was dark, but surprisingly warm, and for a moment or two he paused by the fountain at Bolshoi to give his ‘tail’ plenty of time to catch up. And then he saw him, a heavily built figure in a double-breasted light blue suit, casually reading a magazine on a seat close by.

  Grant then sauntered across Sverdlova Square and past the Moskva to the National Hotel where he hesitated, looked around at the Kremlin wall glimmering against the reflection of lights, and with a show of indecision continued on. After a short time he began to increase his speed into a long striding gait which was deceptive. When he reached the end of Frunze Street he forked left along the Quaie and the north bank of Moskva River to Leo Tolstoy Street where he turned sharply right and waited near the corner. It was pitch dark and there was no hint of movement anywhere except for the hurrying pad of the man behind him, the swish of the river and above it a slightly breathless cough as his shadow reached the corner.