by Matthew Dunn
“For me it’s like this.” He gestured to their surroundings. “But it probably is different for most others. I’m not stupid. I constructed a working farm. So, for me it’s not retirement. It’s redirection. The thought of me spending all day on a golf course or watching daytime TV fills me with dread. I don’t care if I exert myself too much. I get up at four to feed the pigs, horses, and chickens. I tend to the fish in the pond, and periodically clear the pond of weed and mud. In season I nurture and harvest the crops. Off season I work the soil so it’s got the perfect balance of nutrients. I help Yuri with logging and house and other repairs. We mend our vehicles. I’m active in the local council to ensure the lake isn’t corrupted by human intervention. And I help Yuri to read. He’s dyslexic.” He filled his pipe and placed a match against its bowl. “The thing is, I might die younger than someone else but I will do so knowing I’ve put the effort in to life. Say I die at seventy. I guarantee I’ll have been awake more than most who die at eighty. What was it Poe said – sleep being slithers of death.” He puffed on his pipe. “It’s not how long we live. It’s whether we’ve lived at all.”
“Quite right.” Sign tried to relax.
Gregor looked at him. “The weight of the world on your shoulders? You seem distant.”
Sign smiled. “It’s the curse of having an overactive imagination. I see things that sometimes aren’t there.”
“And many times you see things that are there but can’t be seen by others until it’s too late for them. It’s not your fault. Your starting point has always been to consider the near impossible and see if it becomes reality. Most people just take things at face value. You don’t.” Gregor blew a smoke ring and watched it swirl as it drifted over the balcony fence towards the lake. “You foresee complications?”
“I do. I hope I’m wrong.”
“But, if you’re right?”
“Lives will be ruined.” Sign breathed in deeply. “In our line of work it sometimes pays to be wrong.”
Knutsen and Lenin came onto the porch. Lenin was off the lead.
Gregor exclaimed, “He should be on his leash!”
Knutsen sat in a chair. “It’s okay. I’ve cut his dick and balls off. He’s not interested in female wolves anymore.”
Gregor roared with laughter. “He’s been hard work in training? Don’t take it personally. It just means he likes playing with you.”
Lenin sat next to Knutsen and rested his head on his lap. Knutsen rubbed the wolf’s head. “He’s alright. But, I just wish he’d stop knocking the hell out of me.” He grabbed the vodka bottle and poured himself a drink. From his pocket he withdrew a chunk of meat and let Lenin grab it with his teeth. Knutsen leaned forward and quietly said to the wolf, “Don’t worry, fella. I’d never cut off yer crown jewels. But do me a favour pal – don’t keep flipping me three sixty when you charge.” He placed his face against Lenin’s snout. “Mind you, blokes like us aren’t designed to be subtle. You crack on. More training tomorrow, if I get a chance.” He looked at Sign. “Has she made contact?”
Sign nodded. “Tomorrow morning you and I need to be in central Moscow. Bring your gun.”
“Sure thing. Do I need to kill people?”
“I hope not.” Sign stretched his legs out. “Gregor and I have been incarcerated in Russia and it’s not the only time I’ve been imprisoned here. It is not a recommended culmination of a trip to the motherland.”
Gregor laughed. “The good news is there will be no cops knocking on our door this evening. We must change the topic. Tell me Mr. Tank Engine – why did someone as contrarian as you join the Metropolitan Police?”
Knutsen shrugged. “Why did a rebel join the Russian navy?”
“Touché. I suppose we wanted the adventure but soon realised we didn’t like the conformity. In a different life you and I would have been bandits or similar. Still, I don’t regret being in the navy and I must have had some skills in order to make it to the rank of captain of a highly classified submarine.” He had a look of utter contentment as he added, “History has always shown us that the most brilliant military commanders are those that don’t belong in the military.” He stood and said in a strident voice, “I want to show you something, Thomas.”
“No, I’m fine sitting here, pal. I’ve got bruises in places you wouldn’t want to look at.”
Gregor smiled. “You are an excellent guest and an amazing friend to Lenin. The wolf trusts me and Yuri. Now he trusts you. He won’t hurt Ben because Ben is kind and firm with him. But, the wolf is wary of Ben because he can sense his intelligence. That doesn’t matter. You, me, Yuri, Ben, and Lenin are a pack. Please do come with me. It’s only a short walk. After dinner you can have a nice bath to ease your aches and pains.”
Knutsen looked at Sign.
Sign nodded.
Knutsen said, “Okay. Lead on.”
Gregor and Knutsen, and Lenin walked into the nearby woods. Gregor stopped and pointed at a large hole. “This is a burrow. In there is a family of four badgers. They are sleeping now and won’t come out of the burrow until Spring. If you put your head close to the hole you might be able to hear the father snoring. The mother and her two offspring tend to be quieter.”
“Gregor – what’s the point of this?”
Gregor ignored the question. “Look at Lenin. He knows the badgers are in there, but they don’t bother him and he doesn’t bother them. They coexist. The adult badgers can bite through your knee cap. Lenin can crush your skull and disembowel you. But none of the animals here will touch us and nor will we hurt them. We are family.”
Knutsen leaned towards the hole. His muscles ached as he did so. “I can hear the male.”
“He is resting. They gorge themselves on fruit and foliage during the warmer months. It builds fat reserves. Then they hibernate. Ben found the adults when they were kids, one mile from here. They were vulnerable and had got separated from their parents. Ben searched for the parents but couldn’t find them. So he bought the children back to my house. We didn’t know much about badgers. This was before the days of the Internet where you can Google everything. We gave the baby badgers milk and kept them in the chicken coup. The chickens liked them. I like to think they adopted them, or thought they were odd-shaped chickens. One month later Ben dug this hole – not the entire burrow, the badgers had to complete the task, but he gave them the opportunity. When they were big enough, Ben released them at the entrance of the hole. They made it their home. The next season they mated and made their family. They’ve stayed with us ever since. Sometimes they bash our front door in the evening. We give them food and they go home.”
Knutsen was growing impatient. “What’s the point of this story?”
“The point is, Ben did this while recovering from two bullet wounds. He’d fled here after getting into a gunfight in Voronezh. He walked one hundred and fifty miles to my home. Yuri was young then and couldn’t help. I pulled the bullets out and cared for him as best as I could. It was touch and go. He was bedridden and feverish for weeks. Then he got out of bed, went for a walk, found the badgers, and carried them back to my house. He had to lay low here for a while before he could leave Russia. So, he kept himself busy – working on the farm, caring for the animals including the badgers, hunting for dinner, and home-schooling Yuri.” He looked at Knutsen. “The reason I’ve shown you the burrow and told you all this is because I want you to know that you made the right decision by not conforming to lesser people’s rules. My farm and its surroundings function at the highest level. The humans and animals that live here or visit are their own masters yet respect others with the same mind set as them. You didn’t make a wrong decision by joining the police, just as I didn’t make a wrong decision by joining the navy. And we both made the right decision to leave our organisations.”
“As Ben did – leaving MI6.”
“But that’s not the end of matters.” Gregor pointed at the burrow while stroking Lenin. “It’s the beginning. We carve a better future.” He t
urned to face the house and placed his hand on Knutsen’s shoulder. “You are blessed. Ben has complete faith in you. That’s why I gave you Lenin for the week. If Ben trusts you then I trust you. In turn Lenin views you as a pack leader, just as the hedgehogs believe Ben is their father. We live together and we die together. And we help each other out. No hierarchy. No bullshit. Just life. Come – let’s eat.”
They walked back to the house, Gregor leading the way while holding a torch. Lenin was ahead of him, his nose to the ground. When inside the house, Gregor laid a vinyl record onto his player, and activated the turntable and stylus. The house was filled with the sounds of the jazz musician Charlie Parker. Gregor stoked the fire and held his hands close to the flames. Lenin laid close to the heat and yawned. Thank Christ for that, thought Knutsen – the wolf’s finally tired. Yuri was finishing off preparing dinner. Sign was standing on the porch, staring at the star-filled sky.
Knutsen stood next to him. “I didn’t take you for a stargazer.”
Sign didn’t take his eyes off the sky. “I know nothing about astronomy, and nor do I wish to. But I am intrigued in whether there are patterns of distance and location between the stars. I’m interested in patterns.”
“Because that’s what you do down here – search for patterns.”
“Yes, ones that are imperceptible to the human eye.” He looked at Knutsen. “As much as it pains me to say this, I hope we leave Russia the day after tomorrow. It will all depend on whether Natalia gets what we need in the Lubyanka. If she’s successful, we’ll have business to attend to in England.”
The comment made Knutsen sad. He was surprised by his emotional response. When he’d arrived here he’d felt like a fish out of water. But now he felt at home. “We have to follow the paper trail.”
“Indeed we do.” Sign smiled sympathetically. “Don’t worry. We’ll come back here another time. Gregor and I keep an eye on each other, just as you and I keep an eye on each other.” He looked at the lake. It was glittering with the lights from the stars. In a solemn voice he said, “It’s hard to make friends in the secret world. But, on the rare occasions when it happens, it can be heart breaking because friendships should never be born in extreme circumstances.”
Natalia went to her hotel room. She withdrew a sandwich from her handbag, sat on her bed, and ate. When she’d finished, she called Osip to remind him about tomorrow’s appointment. He sounded relatively lucid, though Natalia knew that would shortly change. She asked him whether he’d arranged cover for his absence from the SVR archive in the morning. He said he’d enrolled a temporary assistant for the morning shift. Natalia suggested he set his alarm for seven AM, giving him enough time to get ready and travel to central Moscow. After she ended the call she laid on the bed, looking at the ceiling. She felt calm, though a muscle in her left cheek was twitching. She told herself that it was as a result of all the previous stress she’d been suffering and was not to do with any current or future stress she was unwittingly hiding from herself. She tried to think about pleasant matters. Where would she live in Britain if she got out of the SVR? City, town, village, or the middle of nowhere? Was she ready for a relationship? Would a relationship happen naturally when she least expected it to occur? What job would she like to do? What hobbies would she take up? Her breathing became fast and she no longer felt calm. All of the dreams seemed so out of reach. She felt trapped. She should never have joined the SVR and she should never have become a traitor. She’d started her adult life in a downward spiral. The only chance she had of clawing her way out of the black pit was to wholly rely on the assistance of Ben and the woman who called herself Katy. But, could they really help? Both of them had agendas. And if she didn’t give them what they wanted would they simply walk away and leave her to her fate? One thing she was sure of was that she was out of her depth. In many ways that was a good thing. Ben and Katy seemed so self-assured. And there was no doubting their experience was exponential compared to Natalia’s brief stint in Russian intelligence. Maybe it was appropriate that her fate was in their hands. She ran herself a bath and switched on the TV. Her mood was now one of resignation. What would happen would happen. She had no control over her future. Partially, that brought inner peace.
Archer surveyed the interior of her house in Putney. All of the adjustments had been made. The stair lift to the second floor worked; the handrails on the stairs that were previously difficult to grip were now replaced with cylindrical metal rails; the bathroom had been transformed to accommodate a disabled person; there was a wheel chair in the hallway; the two exterior steps to the front door had been replaced with a ramp; a mobility scooter was in the garage; and the spare bedroom had a motorised bed which could be raised to assist getting out of the thing or simply to assist breathing at night. Everything was ready for her mother’s arrival. And that could happen tomorrow. Today Elizabeth needed one more batch of medical tests and a nurse from the care home was required by law to visit Archer’s London home to do health and safety checks. The nurse also needed to install various medical kit – including an intravenous drip for the administration of medicine and oxygen tank and face mask for use in the night. The nurse would check on her once a week and after six months, providing everything was fine, would reduce her visits to once a month.
Archer poured herself a glass of wine, sat on the sofa, and flicked through a recipe book. She wanted to cook Elizabeth something special and comforting for her first night here. Shepherd’s pie, she decided, was the right choice. She placed a piece of paper on the page containing the recipe and shut the book.
Not for the first time, she wondered how she would cope with living with her mother. Consistently, she’d concluded it would work. Elizabeth was a free spirit and hated being needy. She’d spend her days studying, perambulating southwest London, getting to know the neighbours, shopping, and writing letters to The Times about a range of matters including the reasons that had led Russia to become a totalitarian state, politics in the Middle East, why Brexit might lead to the break-up of the United Kingdom, and the socioeconomic factors that had allowed Americans to vote for a sociopathic moron of a president. And she could feed herself. Elizabeth was a good cook. Alongside her standard waist-height cooker, Archer had installed a knee-height oven and a knee height gas hob, fridge-freezer, and work surface with utensils. Elizabeth would be self-sufficient when it came to providing herself sustenance. Once again, Archer decided everything would be fine. In any case, she worked long hours and sometimes had to travel for weeks at a time. She and her mother would be able to live separate lives.
She sipped her wine and thought about her twin sister. Was Susan alive? Dead? And even if she was alive would she have anything in common with Jayne? Maybe it would be better if she was dead. It would close the chapter and end the uncertainty. No, that wasn’t right. Jayne Archer wanted her sister to be alive, no matter what the outcome. She’d been ruthless in her career ambition, to the detriment of fleeting relationships with boyfriends, but one thing she was not was callous. If Susan was alive, Archer would do anything to be reunited with her.
CHAPTER 9
The next morning Sign and Knutsen were in a café, drinking coffee. They were two minutes’ walk from the Lubyanka. At a sprint, Knutsen estimated he could reach the building in twenty seconds. His handgun was concealed under his fleece jacket. The weapon was needed as a last resort. And even if things went badly wrong for Natalia, the probability of the men being able to help her were slim. Certainly, they couldn’t enter the FSB headquarters to extract her. And if an attempt was made to snatch her as she left the building, Sign would have to grab her and run while Knutsen pointed his pistol at anyone who was coming for her. Then they’d have to escape the city and head on foot across country to the exfiltration point. The chances of success would be thousands to one against. It was in their interests that Natalia held her nerve and walked out of the building without having aroused a drop of suspicion.
For the most part, Sign and Knutsen were
quiet, though now and again Sign would make a comment in Russian – just in case they were being observed. Knutsen didn’t understand what he was saying, but that didn’t matter. In Sign’s pocket was his mobile phone, set to silent and vibrate. It was his hotline to Natalia.
It was ten AM. In thirty minutes they’d leave the café and watch the main entrance to the Lubyanka, hidden from view from everyone, including Natalia when she left the building. There was nothing they could do now apart from wait.
Natalia and Osip entered the Lubyanka. The interior of the imposing, fortress-like rectangular building, had barely changed since the darkest days of its history. There were some modern touches to the décor but they did nothing to diminish the sense that the walls were and always would be drenched in blood. Natalia thought of the building as a man who hadn’t washed for a century and tried to cover up his stench with a bottle of deodorant. So many people had been imprisoned, tortured, and executed in the building. Whether their ghosts remained here or not was down to the eye of the beholder. But, there was no doubting there was a smell that felt wrong. The dead people’s blood had been painted over. But the blood remained. It was ingrained in the stone fabric of the Lubyanka.
After they cleared security checks, Osip led her through corridors containing rooms that had once held captive the famous spy Sidney Reilly, the Swedish diplomat Raoul Gustaf Wallenberg who’d saved thousands of Jews in the holocaust, and the Polish-American Jesuit priest Walter Ciszek. There were so many other people who’d been tortured and executed here. A lot of them were innocent of their alleged crimes. All of them deserved a more civilised tenure in the building.
Osip and Natalia went into the archive section of the FSB. It was located in the building’s basement and had a similar layout to the SVR’s archives – row upon row of files, almost no IT equipment, ceiling fans that helped prevent dust settling on the room’s precious papers, spot lights, and a sign at the entrance saying that it was strictly prohibited to remove files without written authorisation to do so. Some of the files in the huge room dated back to the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917. The room was a treasure trove of oppression, pain, insurrection, and misery.
