When he had given Maya time to change he joined the thinning mass of people still leaving the theatre and sauntered round the block. A black Zim limousine was drawn up by the door which Maya most frequently used and three men were standing close by. Two of them had been with Sokolnikov earlier in the evening but the third was a stranger.
He crossed the road and walked straight ahead without looking round until he had reached the shelter of a street kiosk selling Moscow’s never-ending supplies of ice cream. It was the only place where he might stop without being conspicuous and he was able to kill ten more minutes chilling himself whilst still keeping the stage door under observation. One of the men walked away whilst he was watching and a second returned to the theatre leaving the third man on the pavement. A moment later there was a flurry of life around the car, the second man returning with two boys carrying large bouquets of early spring flowers which were placed in the boot. The third man then sprang to attention and stood beside the passenger door whilst Grant left the kiosk and walked slowly back towards the theatre. Maya appeared a few seconds later, dressed in furs and winter boots with a Cossack astrakhan hat pulled well down over her ears as Sokolnikov followed and ushered her into the Zim. His face was wreathed in smiles and his tubby body seemed fatter than ever in a heavy military overcoat.
Grant quickened his step and reached the monument to Ostrovsky in time to see Sokolnikov’s limousine ease past the Maly theatre and turn right towards the Savoy, where it was held up by cross traffic coming out of Dzerjin Street for long enough to enable him to round the corner and glimpse its tail lights crossing the lower end of Kirova Street into Novaya Square. Sokolnikov’s favourite restaurants were Moskva and Pekin, and his home was not so far from Dynamo Stadium, all of which lay in the opposite direction, but Novaya Square was on the direct route to Maya’s house near Krutitsky church and Grant would have bet a thousand dollars that that was where they were heading.
So far as he could see he had no shadow, and his hotel had no reason to expect him back for at least another half hour or so. Briefly he checked his equipment: ring safely on his right forefinger; the clip of his watch snug against the front of his left wrist; fountain-pen neatly in his jacket pocket and indistinguishable from his favourite Parker 61. The handbag ready only for fusing, and his thickly-soled boots comfortable as slippers in spite of a load of near death worked into each heel. The Magnum was fitting snugly below his left armpit, its heavy holster only slightly creasing the hang of his jacket. Falling into a long loping stride he followed the sidewalks to the little bridge over Jauza river, a narrow stream of sluggish water gleaming with ice in the clear moonlight. Beyond Znamya cinema he cut across to Taganskaya Square and the road which led to Maya. Every sound was blanketed by snow which still coated the city with grey slush, crisp beneath the feet at night but melting under the afternoon sun into dirty mud. As he drew near the building sites which were developing around Maya’s patch of waste ground he paused for breath and to study approaches. Tyre marks had been cut deep into the low drift outside the house and a light burned in the bedroom window upstairs. An occasional car was crossing towards Ostapovskoe Road and a few late revellers were returning to the blocks of new flats which were rising round. Moonlight bathed every corner of the place with brilliant reflection but there would be some darkness behind. Cautiously he sauntered towards the little garden, now covered with rutted snow, and where the low fence ended at the wall of a new builder’s yard he took his first real chance of the day, lifting over it and walking smartly into the shelter of a crumbling out-house and round to the kitchen porch in the rear. He listened carefully for more than five minutes and then opened his pocket ‘break-and-enter’ kit. There were the usual double windows and doors but door fastenings were old-fashioned and simple. Cautiously he eased open the lock and entered a small scullery. The room was warm; there was a splash of cigarette ash on the floor. Upstairs there was the sound of voices. Showing no light he edged forward through the kitchen and paused to park his case in the hall, ears pricked for every sound which echoed down the short steep staircase. Sokolnikov’s snow boots were sitting beside the stove and his coat hanging on a tall rack.
There were only two voices and he could judge only their tone. Sokolnikov sounded officious, his accent thick and heavy. Maya seemed to say very little. Moving with smooth care he slowly began to climb the stairs. He knew that several treads squeaked like the devil. Keeping well to the side he went up on all fours, his hands exploring the feel of the level above, probing for movement and alert for the slightest sound. The eighth gave a low moan. Quickly he withdrew his hands and tried the one above. Gently he gave it his full weight and then on to the top. Maya’s voice was now ringing with annoyance and Grant remembered a shrill note which always warned him of rising temper. Smiling slightly he balanced himself on the small square patch of carpet which was the upstairs landing and waited developments. A wall clock was ticking somewhere downstairs, its solid click-clack blending with the small sounds of night, a whisper of wind outside, the rustle of a mouse in the wall, the deep growl of distant traffic. The voices were now becoming excited, rising in a crescendo of argument. And then there was a sudden moan and a muffled scream, the noise of a blow and the thud of moving furniture.
Grant reached for his holster, easing the Magnum into his hand, and grinning coldly as he opened the door. Maya’s dress had been ripped from neck to waist, a broad flare was spreading up her left cheek and she was lying half against the bed, half sprawling on the floor. ‘That will be about all, I think, General,’ he said.
Maya stared at him in stunned disbelief and then a look of sheer joy spread over her face. ‘Stay where you are,’ he ordered abruptly. ‘Don’t move. And you, Sokolnikov, turn round.’
The Russian stared at him impassively, his eyes narrowed to slits. Only his hands moved, his fingers twitching restlessly whilst he stood gazing at Grant from the strip of Persian rug beside the bed. ‘You are a very quick worker,’ he said at last, ‘but what do you expect to gain from this?’
Grant moved the gun slightly. ‘I said “turn round”.’
The Russian hesitated. ‘You can’t kill me. You would never get away with it.’
‘For the last time, turn round.’ Sokolnikov saw Grant’s finger tighten on the trigger. His eyes were like flint and the Russian knew that he had never been closer to death. Quickly he pivoted to face the window.
Maya was watching from the bed, her face strained and tense, as Grant reversed the gun in one slick movement and slipped ‘on’ the safety catch, gripped it by the barrel and brought it down on the General’s head two inches above the occiput. The man dropped as though he had been pole-axed. Moving with methodical thoroughness Grant felt his pulse, looked at his eyes and then turned to Maya. ‘Fetch a clothes rope. Right away.’
She returned with a length of well-worn cord. Starting at the ankles Grant trussed his prisoner with trained expertise. ‘And now bring up my bag. Left it at the bottom of the stairs.’ The girl returned as the Russian began to recover consciousness. Grant glanced at her smilingly and then pointed to a chair. ‘Sit down. Maya. I’m going to be busy for a bit.’ He lifted a water carafe and splashed its contents over the Russian’s head. ‘Waken up. We’ve got a lot to talk about.’
He was sure that the man was foxing, but gave him another two minutes and then slapped each cheek, a cutting smack which made the Russian wince. ‘Good. You’ll find, General, that I’m going to live up to my reputation for being a fast worker.’ He opened his case and pressed a button in front of a small built-in compartment labelled ‘studs and cuff-links’. A well camouflaged lid sprang open and he withdrew a small patent type syringe, its needle protected by a glass vial. ‘See this, General. It is a culture of germs from your latest secret weapon. How we got it is neither here nor there, but I am not going to kill you. Instead I’m going to give you a shot of live bugs. And then, in three weeks’ time, you’ll be sitting with all the others down near Odessa tellin
g everyone how pleasant the world is and how much you want to please your new masters.’ He snipped off the end of the ampoule and exposed the needle. ‘Just one little jab and you’ll start being a happy man for the first time in your life.’ He was convinced that his best chance of success lay in shock tactics and in a confident, gigantic bluff. Maya was listening to every word but still feeling squeamish with the shock of his return, and then she stiffened as she watched the Russian’s face, fear wiping away its confident arrogance. Even his voice sounded different, half-strangled by terror. ‘For crissake, Grant, don’t do that to me.’
Grant paid no attention but put the tip of the needle against the Russian’s wrist. ‘Supposed to be the biceps really, or you can swallow it if you like. But it comes to the same thing in the end.’
The Russian tried to pull himself together. He was confused by the blow and still dazed by Grant’s return. ‘Doctor Grant.’ He was fighting desperately for a way out. ‘Don’t do this. Let’s come to terms.’
‘Don’t do what?’
‘Don’t inoculate me with “space-sickness”.’
Grant paused. ‘So that’s what you call it. The Americans describe it as the kindness-sickness. Why space?’
The Russian grabbed at the chance. The syringe had been withdrawn a little and was now pointing towards the floor. ‘Because it was after our long distance ships returned that scientists found how cosmic rays had altered bacteria. So “space-sickness” is a good name.’
‘Why not “cosmic-sickness” then?’ argued Grant, his mind working with clear computer-like precision as he set about the biggest game of bluff in his life.
The Russian swallowed eagerly. ‘Scientists say that cosmic rays won’t do it inside the earth’s atmosphere. It is only after you get away from the atmosphere that concentrations of radiation are high enough to alter the habit of germs.’
‘I know that,’ said Grant impatiently. ‘Anyhow you’re for the Odessa highway quite soon and when you think back on all this you’ll laugh at yourself for having bothered to argue about it.’
‘Look, Doctor.’ The Russian watched him lift the syringe again and start to press it against his skin. ‘You know there’s no antidote. If you inoculate me I’ll lose everything. And I’ve never been immunised.’
‘More fool you, then,’ said Grant. ‘I got done months ago and the Americans also have a serum. But,’ he added grimly, ‘it won’t work except during the active stage of the disease. Not after the tenth day.’ He was watching Sokolnikov with passionless calm. Shock tactics had bluffed him into admitting that a disease existed, that its source had been traced to changes in germs brought back from space-flights, that these changes were due to cosmic radiation and that Russia did have a toxoid for immunising. The further question remained as to how the germs had been carried and where they had been mutated. The outside skin of space-ships was sterilised by heat on re-entry into the atmosphere. The bugs must, therefore, have been carried inside. Which suggested that Soviet scientists had still to find a way of insulating the skin of their space-craft against radiation. ‘We also have another advantage,’ he continued, ‘because the Americans have an alloy which insulates their capsules against all types of radiation, so from now on this sort of thing can’t happen again.’
Sokolnikov struggled to ease his position on the floor. The cords were cutting into his skin and his head was throbbing with concussion. ‘Our people are trying to find a way. But at the moment our astronauts are still exposed to cosmic rays and our scientists can’t do anything about it. They say that the disease was caused by germs carried by dust inside the Vostocks. But the rays changed them into something quite different, which is why we call it “space-sickness”. A manned moon-shot will be impossible until this problem has been solved.’
Grant lifted the syringe and plunged it into the thick muscles at the back of his prisoner’s neck. The General gasped with surprise and struggled violently inside the ropes. His language was shocking, but as he raved on he lapsed into Russian and looked towards Maya, cursing her with such venom that although he did not understand a word Grant thrust a handkerchief into his mouth and gagged him with one of her winter stockings. And then, quite quickly, the struggles ceased, his voice became drowsy and Sokolnikov lay limp upon the floor.
Grant glanced at his watch. It was less than an hour since he had watched Maya drive away from the theatre. He fumbled in his pocket and withdrew the ear-ring. ‘It brought me luck, after all,’ he smiled. ‘And don’t worry about this fellow. I’ve only given him a heavy shot of morphine. Should keep a gorilla asleep for at least eight hours.’ He rolled the sleeping bundle towards the side of the room and left it lying flush against the wall.
The girl stood up. Her eyes were shining and she was smiling. She hesitated for a brief second and then their lips met in a long deep kiss.
Chapter Twelve – Love beside the General
Minutes had passed before Maya could pull herself away from him. Shock had given place to relief. The past months had shown her what life could be like in the Soviet Union for those who failed to conform. A watertight case had been rigged against her and she had been faced with a straightforward ultimatum: either accept suspension and then marry Sokolnikov after being returned to favour or else face a formal trial as an enemy of the people. ‘They even had photographs,’ she shuddered.
‘What sort of photographs?’ Grant looked at her curiously.
‘It couldn’t have been me. But it was a girl who looked like me. She was in bed making love to a man.’
‘Who was the man?’
‘Just a man,’ she blushed. ‘You could only see his back. His hair was like yours. Even the shape of his head was much the same. The pictures looked as though they had been taken through a sky-hole in a ceiling.’
‘And are you sure that they were other people? Could they have done that to us at any time?’ There had been nights in a Paris hotel, a stolen afternoon in a roadhouse near Chartres and an evening at his own flat. But all the other occasions had been at Maya’s own house. In this very room, in fact. ‘Could you recognise the place?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘You could only recognise the back of the man’s head and the girl’s hair-style with part of her profile. But it had been done very cleverly. Only people who knew us very well would have noticed the difference.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I pretended to be sorry about us. And I said I would marry him.’ Gently her fingers probed into his thick thatch of crisp hair, twisting it into tight little curls. ‘You see,’ she whispered, ‘I guessed that somehow you would find out what was happening and come back for me.’ Eagerly she leaned against him, her taut muscles flush against his body and her breasts pointing firm against his chest. Her eyes were tender and a sly, provocative smile was playing on her lips. ‘You’ve done all sorts of things to me, David. You’ve even made me want to leave my country, but we’ve never made love beside an unconscious general of the secret police.’
‘And these pictures, Maya? Where are they now?’
She loosened his tie and whipped it off. ‘Look.’ Holding one end she flicked it like a whip towards the body on the floor. The tie smacked against the Russian’s cheek leaving a V-shaped flare of crimson. ‘Revenge,’ she said quietly and then hung it over the head-board of her bed. ‘They will either be in our files in the Ministry of State Security or else in Sokolnikov’s own home. What does it matter?’
His voice was very relaxed. ‘When we get out of this and you start dancing in Europe or America it might cause a really nasty scandal if they were released to the world press.’ He gently held her hands. ‘And they might very well do that out of spite,’ he added. ‘So we’d better try to get a hold of them.’
‘Why do you stop me undoing these clothes?’ she asked. ‘It’s bed time. I want to make love under the nose of your rival. Even if he’s asleep and won’t know anything about it.’
‘Maya!’ said Grant seriously. ‘Don’
t you realise that he’ll have arranged for a car to collect him? Or did he expect to stay the night?’
She paused. ‘I’d forgotten. He said it was coming about two o’clock.’ She had changed since he last saw her and was no longer nervous. ‘What will we do about it?’
‘I’ll show you,’ he said quietly. ‘Provided, of course, you have the nerve to go through with it. Help me get him on the bed. We’ve got to fix things so that we have a clear day of grace tomorrow and this is the only way.’
Together they lifted the General off the floor. He was deeply unconscious. Grant carefully unfastened the ropes, stripped off his uniform, and, leaving him clad only in singlet and underpants, tucked him beneath the sheets. ‘And now vodka and two glasses,’ he ordered.
Maya rushed downstairs. When she returned he emptied more than half of the bottle into a vase of daffodils standing on a tiny table, swirled some around the inside of the glasses and poured a few drops over Sokolnikov’s head, staining the pillow and dribbling across the sheet. ‘You’ve had an orgy,’ he explained, ‘and your boy friend’s passed out. When the car comes you are going to act rather drunk yourself. And I want you to peel off most of your clothes. You’ll answer the door looking seductive and drink-taken. Then you’ll vamp the driver a little, tell him how his boss couldn’t take it and bring him up here to show the remains. The man will never spot that morphia has been used and he’ll go back to H.Q. to tell everyone how the big white chief looks in a coma. They won’t expect him back before night, but to make that point clear you’ll say that Sokolnikov was celebrating his engagement to you and that he promised to take a day off tomorrow to buy presents. You’ll drop a hint that you expect to monopolise him for as long as you can and that you hope he’ll be better tomorrow night.’
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