Sokolnikov glared at him but said nothing as he pulled off his singlet and sat stiffly on the edge of the half-sized bath to roll down his underpants. His flesh was milk white but blotched with splotches of brown pigment and tiny moles. His belly wall sagged in front of flabby abdominal muscles and his short thick thighs were marled with telangiectatic veins. Like many another of his kind he was a damn sight less impressive stripped than in uniform, thought Grant, as he watched him wobble with giddiness as he leaned forward to splash his head with cold water.
Grant allowed him a generous ten minutes and then prodded him in the back. ‘Get dressed. Your uniform is next door.’ The smell of strong coffee was wafting up into the landing and back in the bedroom he allowed Sokolnikov to put on everything except his shoes before calling for Maya. ‘You’d better say nothing at all, General,’ he repeated, as the girl entered the room with coffee and a piece of bread.
When he was finished Grant lifted the shopping bag with his left hand and again pulled it over the prisoner’s face, covering him with the gun whilst Maya anchored the grips with the same neck-scarf. ‘And now,’ said Grant, ‘hands behind your back and feet together,’ giving Maya the gun whilst he finished the job of trussing him up. He then returned to his bag, and opened its secret compartment loaded with emergency equipment. The second dose of morphia was the same as the first and Sokolnikov was again unconscious within twenty minutes.
Maya had not lost her nerve but Grant guessed that she was kept going only by excitement, and breakfast was a quick meal of Armenian pears followed by boiled eggs served on toasted brown bread spread thick with pale white butter. The sun was shining brilliantly and snow was already beginning to melt when she left for the theatre after a last minute briefing. He killed time by double-checking on his own equipment, tightening Sokolnikov’s bonds which had loosened slightly as he relaxed in sleep, and then drawing from memory a detailed sketch of the approaches to Gusev’s Kremlin offices from the Armoury Palace. His first visit had not been a waste of time. Without it he would hardly have known where to begin, but as things were he remembered every detail of every part of Moscow Kremlin which was open to the public. The thing had now become a rabbit warren of old churches, palaces and convents, many converted into government offices, the approaches to which were cordoned off by some of the most efficient guards in the world. But the place still looked like a mediaeval fortress in spite of alterations, and the tall red brick or ochre walls which surrounded it hadn’t changed in four hundred years. Shaped like a huge isosceles triangle these fortified 16th-century ramparts with their twenty massive towers enclosed no less than sixty-four acres of ground, every square metre of which was under surveillance by someone during hours of daylight when tourists streamed in to visit its museums. But although part was open to the public there was a more careful inspection of baggage on entering Moscow Kremlin grounds than there was even at Russia’s frontiers. His case would be opened whether he entered by Troitskaya or Borovitskaya Gates and he could only hope that the guards would take him at his face value. But once inside there was still little scope for wandering, and visitors were first guided to the low hill rising to Oruzheinaya Palata, a treasure house of relics dating from the early Tsars, though now called the Armoury Museum. Beyond that they continued past the façade of the Grand Palace and turned sharp left into Cathedral Square where they were allowed to explore three fantastic cathedrals drenched in Russian history, before being directed straight on to the main drive and exit gate entering Red Square.
Admission to the Armoury Museum was possible only with a ticket and access to the Grand Palaces was out of the question unless one belonged to the world of politics and delegations. But entrance to any of the other buildings in the fortress was utterly impossible for all but the chosen few, and Gusev’s offices could best be approached at night from behind the Grand Palace, with blatant bluff as his only chance of success.
The problem resolved itself into three separate phases. Illicit entrance to the Kremlin could be made only by using the Armoury, and it would have to be arranged as near as possible to closing time. Even then, without Maya’s help that might be impossible. But the second phase would be the period of greatest danger, when he was hidden inside the Armoury waiting for its doors to close and hoping that no last minute search would be made of the building. That over, the third step would be relatively easy, given a little luck and a reasonably dark night. He would break out of the Armoury and face the short three hundred yard walk to Gusev’s door wearing his fur coat and balaclava. No one would expect a stranger to be inside the place, and even if he were seen the average soldier ought instinctively to accept him as an authorised person. But even so, he thought, there would still need to be a heluva lot of luck and at best the odds were even.
Maya returned as he was again recalling to mind the addresses of Chang’s Moscow agents. Unnamed seats had been reserved on a Trans-World flight out of Moscow that night, but it would do no harm to continue preparing alternative lines of retreat and he decided again to phone one of Chang’s men in the afternoon.
Maya’s news was good. She had two tickets for the Armoury Museum and had seen her friend, who still boasted that Professor Gusev was chasing her. She believed that he worked in his Kremlin offices every evening, never leaving them until after eight o’clock, and said that she was meeting him for dinner that night in the Prague.
They lunched together from fresh caviare and steaming hot white bread, tinned raspberries and half a dozen glasses of tea brewed from the samovar. A taxi had been arranged for two o’clock and as the time drew near Grant gave her final instructions. ‘I may need help when we get to Troitskaya Gate. Let’s hope the men recognise you, but if they don’t, offer to give them your autograph and take a couple of signed pictures along. Usually they don’t allow people in carrying luggage. Not even a case as small as mine. But if they see that you’re acting guide they may let it pass. Especially when it only holds a pair of shoes and some gloves. And that is hurdle number one.
‘Once inside the grounds we go up to the Armoury and the chances are that there will be a fair number of other people there, the usual Asiatic mob and so forth, but tickets are taken without much fuss and once inside the building we go straight upstairs. Then you must drift away, but keep me in sight, though so far as the world is concerned we don’t belong. Total strangers, in fact. The crowd begins to thin out some fifteen minutes before closing time and I’ll join them. But downstairs I’ll go into the hall where they show regalia along with that stupendous collection of state-coaches. And that is when you must watch me like a hawk.
‘I’ll wander round for a bit and eventually stop near one particular vehicle which is quite immense. I tried the door a few months ago and it opens without a sound, so as soon as you see me stop and put a handkerchief to my nose you must distract the attention of everyone within sight including the guards. I don’t care how you do it but I need about twelve seconds flat to open the door, slip inside the coach, lift the back seat and tuck into the luggage-box.
‘As soon as you see me disappear get the party moving and keep their thoughts occupied. Say you want to see Catherine the Great’s top boots. Ask if you can try them on. Keep them laughing. Say what a joke it would be if you could wear the Crown of Monomakh even for a couple of minutes. But keep them amused and when the bell goes for closing time don’t be in a hurry to rush off. You say that Pravda gave you a good write-up after last night’s gala return to fame so they’ll probably be thrilled to bits about meeting someone in the news. Hang around chatting until you are sure no one is suspicious and then beat it back home at the double. I’ll leave another shot of morphine handy upstairs and if the boy friend is surfacing give him a jab in the thigh.’
He stood up and folded her into his arms, smothering her face with kisses. ‘I know it’s asking a lot, sweetie, but honestly I don’t think there’ll be much risk. And given a bit of luck we should be in France by this time tomorrow.’
�
��Or else we’ll both be dead.’ Maya fumbled in a small breast pocket and drew out two ear-rings. ‘Last time it brought you luck, David, so take it again. And this time I’ll wear the other one.’
They were waiting and dressed when the taxi arrived. Sokolnikov was asleep and Maya’s cigarette case, her purse and compact were in Grant’s bag. Swiftly they walked down the short garden path and across the slushy pavement. A moment later Maya stopped the car at a telephone box and Grant dialled the first name on Chang’s list. The voice at the other end spoke Russian but he knew that the man was trilingual. ‘I spoke to you yesterday about that small piece of ivory you have for sale,’ he said. ‘I still want it to match up a piece to complete my collection.’
The voice didn’t hesitate. ‘When would you like to see it?’
‘I’m short of time and hope to leave this evening. Would it be too late if I suggested between nine and ten o’clock?’
There was an affable guffaw over the line. ‘It is never too late to do business, comrade. But do you want to meet in my shop or could I pick you up somewhere?’
‘If I can make it I’ll go direct to the shop,’ said Grant curtly. ‘A lot depends on how I’m placed.’
‘I understand.’ The voice became very bland and reminded Grant of Chang at his best. ‘I’ll be looking out for you and you can be sure that we won’t overcharge. In Moscow people sometimes say that there are three prices for everything, one for Muscovites, one for visitors and another for capitalists, but that is just a joke. You will pay exactly the same as any other citizen of our great country and I only hope that my little treasure will please you.’ There was a click and the line went dead. Back in the car Maya played the part of guide as they continued along Kremlevsk Quai to the corner of Mokhovaya Street where the taxi dropped them within yards of the bridge across Alexandrovsky Garden.
Together they walked up to the sentries guarding the entrance under Kutafya Tower. They were young men, red army soldiers, clean-cut and with shaven heads. Curtly they ordered Grant to open his bag. They glanced inside and were beginning to admire the labels when Maya explained that the visitor was a distinguished dancer from London. But the word ‘dancer’ clicked. ‘Koren!’ The men grinned from ear to ear, saluted and waved them through.
‘See what I mean?’ said Grant. ‘Without you I would be lost.’
They forced themselves to walk slowly up the short hill, pausing to admire the view of piling towers which stretched ahead. At the door of the Armoury a taciturn attendant received their tickets and stared coldly at Grant’s bag.
‘He says it must be left down here,’ translated Maya.
‘Camera,’ said the man helpfully.
Grant grinned and opened it up, pointing to the girl’s trinkets and at his finely-made indoor suède shoes. The man lifted them out and looked at them with envy. Glancing cautiously around he sat down behind a low counter and tried one of them on. ‘He says it fits,’ explained Maya.
‘Then ask him to try the other one,’ said Grant impatiently.
They watched his head bob up and down as he bent forwards to tie the laces. And then he stood up and walked back to the door. ‘He says they are perfect,’ smiled Maya.
‘Well tell him that they hurt me a bit so I’ll let him have them if he can get me a good fur hat to replace this balaclava. Say that I’ll come back tomorrow and see what he produces.’ He hesitated. The man knew that they had arrived together. ‘And explain that I am going to leave you here to see the Cathedrals after I’ve had a quick look round. Mention that I’m really only interested in the Eastern stuff.’
The man nodded. The bag was ignored and Maya led the way up the staircase to the halls where some of the most priceless treasures of ancient Russia were still housed in royal splendour.
‘And this is where we separate,’ whispered Grant, as they approached a collection of tiny bejewelled Easter eggs worked by Fabergé for the last of the Tsars. ‘Keep me in sight and do your stuff when the time comes.’
Gradually they drifted apart, Maya absorbed in the Sèvres porcelain and Grant studying each individual item in a display cabinet of ivory and jade sent from a Mikado to the then Tsar of all the Russias. The light was beginning to fade and the crowd dwindled when he turned at the top of the staircase into a small room filled with jewel-encrusted robes of ancient metropolitans. He was watching his time carefully, calculating to reach the collection of state-coaches downstairs not more than ten minutes before closing time. The guards had ignored him, but he knew that this was only part of a skilled technique and that nothing took place in the room without someone spying from a corner.
A last flurry of stragglers had collected on the landing outside and Grant joined in behind as they walked down to the bottom floor. The door-keeper had his back to him as he turned into the nearby hall but he could hear the click of Maya’s heels on the floor behind and the pitter-patter of leather on wood as she approached two men watching impassively beside the case of crown jewels. Off-handedly he strolled past a few of the smaller coaches, pausing to admire family crests painted on door panels or to stare at wooden wheels which once had jolted dukes and empresses over the muddy roads of their Imperial Empire. The room was unusually silent and he could hear Maya’s nervous laughter as she watched him pause at the door of one ungainly box on wheels, built high in front and harnessed to a team of dummy horses. He felt for his handkerchief and looked round the room. So far as he could see no one was watching. Swiftly he wiped his lips and tensed himself for action. Maya was talking to the guards twenty paces away, facing him and pointing animatedly at a figure dressed in the clothes of Catherine the Great. Suddenly she began to strut about, imitating the fat little queen and miming a court scene. The guides roared with laughter, and taking his cue Grant eased open the handle of the door. He had rehearsed the routine in his mind for weeks and remembered the coach in detail. As he stepped inside it rocked slightly and there was a slight creak from its ancient springs. Placing his weight with the padding softness of a cat he regained his balance, closed the door and lifted up the back of the rear seat. The cavity behind was dusty and stale with the heaviness of dank air. Taking a deep breath he crouched down and slithered into the darkness, gathering himself into a compact ball as he allowed the door to drop into position. The whole movement had taken him less than fifteen seconds, a shade longer than he had estimated, but the background hum of Maya’s conversation hadn’t changed and even in his box he could hear the deep-throated guffaws of the guards as she entertained them with a long-winded story.
And then voices came nearer, pausing almost beside him. He almost stopped breathing as the door of his coach opened and the seat wobbled when someone sat down. He guessed that it was Maya and smiled tensely as she gave a sharp command and he heard the jingle of reins, the crack of a whip, and from outside the deep voices of two guards imitating the sound of horses’ feet clippety-clopping over hard ground. And then the coach rocked slightly as she jumped out and noisily closed the door. The harsh trill of an electric bell interrupted her chatter and the voices faded towards the entrance hall. For a few minutes there was a rumble of distant farewells and the clatter of hurrying feet as the building was emptied. Cautiously he listened for every tell-tale sound which would paint a picture of what was happening. First came the lazy shuffle of feet slithering round the room. A last inspection from an elderly guard, he guessed. There was a faint crack in the woodwork beside his head and he heard the click of an electric switch as the lights snapped on. A door opened noisily and he picked up the voices of new arrivals, women gossiping around the cabinets whilst they prepared to do some sort of work. Dusting probably, he thought, and scarcely dared to breathe when they began to work on the wood of his hiding place. Dust was itching his eyes and tickling his nostrils. After only half an hour his thighs were bound with cramp, and to make matters worse a nail of sorts was stabbing his kneecap. Painfully he eased himself aside and mouthed a four-letter word as the coach unexpectedly swayed and a squ
eak seemed to screech through the room. At the same time there was a burst of laughter from the women and the unmistakable noise of pails being lifted and water sluicing on the floor. Squelsh! Scliff! Shuffle! The blind play of charwomen at work was broken only by an occasional grunt as the floor was washed clean and furnishings polished clear of finger-marks.
Grant’s body was one numb ache when, at long last, the sounds faded towards the entrance hall, lights were switched out and he heard the grind of a key turning in the lock. He glanced at the gleaming yellow dial of his timepiece. It was not quite six o’clock.
Cautiously he lifted up the hinged door in front of him and climbed into the cabin of the coach. The back-piece dropped into position and he leaned gratefully against its hard padding, stretching out his legs and sprawling luxuriously over the quilted cushions. The temptation to smoke was almost irresistible and during the next hour he would have paid fifty pounds for one of his favourite Havanas. He could not even take the risk of leaving the cabin, but waited until lights went out in the nearby hall and he heard the women leave the building.
Ten minutes later he lifted his bag, stepped out of the coach and softly closed the door. Enough reflection came through the windows to enable him to move with ease, but keeping to the darker corners he worked his way back to the main door and reached for his house-breaking kit. Systematically he fingered the surrounds of the door for wiring and studied the lock for burglar-alarm gimmicks before inserting his forceps and working on the tumblers. The place was deadly silent. Outside he could hear only the whisper of wind in the eaves of the old building and the occasional crack of frozen snow.
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