Comrade Krosky reached into a handbag and brought out a small transistor radio. This, she switched on: music came, loud. Shard knew why: in Russia, the bugs were usually busy and no one could be fully trusted. P. V. Krosky leaned forward in her chair; he leaned forward in his. They spoke almost ear to mouth, with eyes on the door: there was a readiness to spring apart the moment it began to open. Shard felt a strong surge of hope: he was getting the form, fast.
Krosky said, “The body of my sister Tanya. My parents are not young — my grandfather is very old. There is a strong family attachment. Tanya is so badly wanted in Russia. Do you know where the body is, Comrade Shard?”
He shook his head. “No. I won’t pretend I do. Other, that is, than it must be in London.”
“Your Hedge has it?”
“He’ll know where it is, that’s certain.” She studied him, her eyes still glistening. “I have said I shall trust you. I think I can, but in any case I have no other course. Will you promise me that my sister’s body will be returned to Russia, Comrade Shard?”
“In exchange for — what? Barclay and Elgood, as was originally intended? Tuball? Or — are you offering me a safe conduct out of Russia?”
“The last,” she said. “The last, if you give your promise about Tanya.”
He took a deep breath. “I can’t speak for Hedge. You must understand that. It would be like asking you to answer for — to commit — well, say Colonel Bulnakov. Wouldn’t it? But I’ll do all I can. That part, I promise.”
“And you believe you will have success, Comrade?”
He said firmly, “Yes, I believe I will. In some respects, Hedge is a vulnerable man.”
She nodded. “I accept your word, Comrade Shard.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Now we have forty-eight hours. That is the time I was given by certain persons in Moscow, you understand? It will be enough time if all goes to plan, Comrade Shard. The first step is to drive to Vitebsk in Byelorussia, another stage on the journey west. The guards will not be suspicious, and there will be no difficulty.”
“And Tuball?”
“Tuball comes with us.”
“I’m supposed to be sure he’s dead.
What’s going to happen to him, Comrade Krosky?”
“You can be sure of this: he will pay for what he has done. You will be able to report to your Hedge with a clear conscience.”
“I have your word on that?”
She met his eye. “Yes,” she said. “You have my promise, as I have yours.” She moved away from him, sat back in her chair, leaving the transistor still blaring out music. Then she went to the door and opened it. She spoke to someone out in the hall, one of the armed guards, the Lubyanka men. Shutting the door, she came back to the fire and stood looking down into the flames and the red glow beneath them. For a moment she looked strangely beautiful as the fire played in her face and slightly changed the contours: for a moment, just for a moment, Shard saw Tanya Gorukin as she might have been in life. A fleeting glimpse and then it was gone, but Shard was relieved to have the proof. Ten minutes later the door opened again and a guard spoke briefly to P. V. Krosky.
“Come,” she said, looking at Shard. Ahead of her gun, Shard walked out into the hall, into the courtyard, where another car waited. Tuball was in the back, cowering under the second guard’s gun. A few minutes later they had turned out of the yard onto the main road for Smolensk and Vitebsk, still under the iron-hard grip of Russia’s winter, moving slowly along tracks cleared by the snow ploughs.
CHAPTER XVIII
In the early stages it was a diabolical drive: the cold was almost too much to be borne. The car’s heater seemed to make no impression: the moment warmth was blown from that heater, it appeared to be sucked away, drawn out of the car by the intensity of frost. The world was made of snow.
And again silence: P. V. Krosky liked her car journeys to be mute and solemn. Shard passed the time in mental speculation and in trying to find some natural features in the landscape not whitened by snow. He didn’t succeed. All he saw was white: trees, ground — even buildings were fighting a losing battle. Napoleon’s army must indeed have had a terrible time.
But, by the time they had reached Smolensk, the snow had stopped and the wind had died away behind. It was evening and it was bitterly cold, but bright, with a clear sky as the sun went down. In Smolensk they stopped for petrol and oil: no other stops. They pressed on northwest for Vitebsk, through Rudnya and Liozno. There was some conversation between P. V. Krosky and the guards, conducted in Russian. There were sidelong looks at Shard, at Tuball. Orders, once they entered Vitebsk, were passed to the driver. They carried on through the town, coming out to the west. A few miles beyond Vitebsk the driver, who had slowed and had seemed to be looking out for bearings, stopped and turned round to speak to P. V. Krosky.
She seemed to be agreeing something, some course of action. She explained in English to Shard: “You see, over there?” She swept an arm to the left.
Shard said, “Lights. Is it a farm?”
“Part of a collective, yes. The track is blocked with snow and we must go on foot now.”
“God!”
There was nothing to do but accept. They got out, shivering, blue and numb, scarcely feeling hands and feet as they went on ahead of the guns. Tuball tripped and fell, was hauled upright and pushed on, his plaster snow-soaked. They all came, the driver included, leaving the car to its own devices: there would be few people around tonight to interfere with it. As they neared the lights in the building, Shard realised that they were being watched for: more light came as a door was opened, and Shard saw a big man against that light, a bent man, peering across the lying snow. After a moment he turned away, and was then joined by another man, less bent and thinner in the body. Then a woman.
The party crunched on through the snow and halted by the open door. P. V. Krosky went forward: the woman in the doorway reached out her arms and they embraced. To his surprise, Shard saw that Comrade Krosky was weeping openly.
*
Tuball was put in a stable, empty but for himself. He would keep warm with straw. The building was strong, and he would be watched throughout the night. The man Shard, P. V. Krosky told the armed guards, was wanted for more questioning before morning, before the next stage. She and the men of the collective would be able to deal with him safely.
Shard was taken to a long low room, very clean, warm from a wood fire blazing in a great open fireplace at one end. Down the room was a long scrubbed table, with chairs. Before the fire stood the bent old man, the younger and thinner man, and the woman. From behind Shard came P. V. Krosky, putting away her gun.
She said, “My father, S. M. Gorukin. My mother. My grandfather, V. Y. Zernov.”
A gathering of the clans! Shard gave a formal bow, murmured something in English, something that seemed appropriate and polite in a strange situation. Krosky went on, “They wished to see you, Comrade Shard.”
He turned to her. “Why?”
“To make up their minds that you are to be trusted.”
He said quietly, “Yes, I see. Trusted — to send back your sister’s body?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve promised you I’ll do my very best. How do I convince your family?”
She said, “Let them look at you, Comrade Shard. There is no other way. They speak no English and you speak no Russian.” She said something to the silent group before the fire’s glow, and their eyes, already staring at Shard, seemed to him to grow more bright, more fixed. He felt awkward, like a schoolboy at an interview for a first job. Worse, much worse: on this wordless scrutiny his whole life could well depend. But he met the looks calmly, boldly, trying to show neither his inner tension nor his sympathy in an appalling bereavement: he had to be trusted as a professional operator of competence and honour rather than as someone who merely showed a feeling that could be false. They had, naturally, to believe him capable of doing what he had promised.
With the best intentions, he grew restive under
that close and prolonged surveillance: he felt himself grow angry, felt himself show it. But oddly, that seemed to help. The old man, the old bent grandfather, gave a sudden chuckle and said something loudly, jovially, in Russian: they all smiled. Old Zernov came forward and took Shard’s hand in a strong grip, and shook it many times. He was followed by his daughter and Comrade Gorukin —
Tanya’s father: Shard could see a resemblance to both daughters, the beautiful and the plain. A cruel quirk of fate that had biased the genes so heavily to one side! After the hand-shaking, there was a conference, a quick one, with an obvious result confirmed smilingly by P. V. Krosky: “They trust you, Comrade Shard. Soon you will be in West Germany.”
“And Tuball? Do they know he’s here — and what he did?”
Krosky nodded. “They know.”
“And — ?”
“For now, sleep,” she said crisply. No more questions would be answered. “You sleep in here, where it is warm. Rugs and skins will be brought.” She began chivvying her family from the room and when they had gone she said, and looked curiously embarrassed as she said it, “I too shall sleep here. I must guard you. Appearances are better kept up…though in the end it will not matter.”
He asked, “What do you mean by that?”
“You will see.” She would say no more: as promised, rugs were brought and Shard slept in front of the fire. Comrade Krosky sat in a chair holding her gun, looking immensely tired but vigilant. During that night, Shard woke once: to the sound of a burst of automatic gunfire, followed by another, both, he fancied, from outside the building. Jerking upright, he stared into the muzzle of P. V. Krosky’s gun. Above it her face was tight: no questions was the message. Time would tell all. Warmed by the fire’s glow, Shard settled back to sleep again.
*
“Wake up.”
Shard opened his eyes: P. V. Krosky was shaking him, P. V. Krosky without a gun. Through the windows came the daylight, a clear sky and no snow other than what was already lying. Getting up, Shard saw that the white had a deadened look, a defeated look as though something of a thaw was setting in. He met Krosky’s eye. “What now, Comrade?”
“The fulfilling of my part of the bargain, Comrade Shard.”
“Which is…?”
“The death of Tuball.”
In spite of all, he felt a sense of shock: she was cold as ice, so deliberate, so single-minded. “By shooting?”
“Not by shooting.”
“That shooting in the night…can you tell me now? I thought it might be Tuball, but it seems it wasn’t.”
“Not Tuball. The guards from the Lubyanka, and the driver of the car.” She saw his horrified expression, his complete astonishment. “They are no longer wanted, and they would have talked.”
“But you — what’ll happen to you, Comrade Krosky?”
She shrugged. “Nothing. There will be no-one to talk now. No-one who will talk — my father’s family are much loved here in their own district — this you will soon see for yourself. And my father and my grandfather are men of power.”
“And Colonel Bulnakov?”
She smiled: there was a sudden softness in her face. She said, “He too is powerful — and, as he said himself, human too, and he — ” She broke off as the door of the room opened and her father, Comrade Gorukin came in carrying a pitchfork. They spoke together in Russian and Gorukin went out again, stood holding the door open.
“Come,” Krosky said. She went through, followed by Shard. Behind Shard came Gorukin. They went outside, into the keen cold air and the snow: by the stable stood the grandfather and Krosky’s mother, also carrying pitchforks. Something took Shard’s attention towards some open ground, extending beyond the farm buildings to the right: more figures, men and women, standing in two silent rows, leaning on pitchforks.
Shard caught his breath.
The grandfather, Zernov, lifted the latch of the stable door and went in. Shard heard Tuball’s voice, high, hoarse, terrified. He was pleading: then there was a scream. Tuball came hobbling out, eyes wide. Behind him Zernov with his gleaming twin prongs, both dripping blood. Gorukin, and his wife, and Krosky who now had a pitchfork as well, were nicely positioned to head Tuball down towards the line of collective farmers. This they did with their pitchforks: close behind the demented Tuball they thrust and prodded. Tuball’s clothing was blood soaked. When he reached the waiting line of men he tried to break back on his tracks, and was met by the family pitchforks, now attacking his front.
Shard felt a wave of horror, of pity.
Screaming, maddened, like a bull after taking the barbs of the picadors, Tuball hobbled bloodily back again, down the gauntlet of the men of the collective. He managed to flail two of them down with his crutches, sent another flying in his demented progress. He broke away from them, hobbling on in spite of what must surely be a serious blood loss. The men, for some reason, didn’t follow: they stood and watched, forming a crescent behind Tuball, a crescent of steel.
Shard ran for P. V. Krosky. “This is sheer sadism,” he said, “but it has to be finished. He mustn’t get away. I trusted you for that, remember?”
“He will not get away.” Krosky shaded her eyes against a shaft of sunlight striking brilliantly off the lying snow. “Look now.”
Shard looked; and heard as well: heard Tuball’s death screams. Tuball had stopped, crutches in the air, arms waving like a wild man. His legs had disappeared: there was a patch of dark on the snow’s whiteness, a spreading pool, a horrible stain, a revolting stench wafting back, a miasma of filth. Screaming, arms flailing still, Tuball very slowly went on sinking. Shard watched, horrified but fascinated, unable not to watch Tuball’s last moments. Higher the marsh crept, and higher. Tuball continued screaming until the filth, the sucking filth, covered mouth and nose. And when the screaming stopped there was nothing left at all. Just a black hole, which would be whitened again in the next fall of snow.
P. V. Krosky was still at Shard’s side. “He was trying to escape,” she said. “The marsh is deep, bottomless. So much stock lost over the years. Cattle, pigs. Tuball will be in good company. Always my father has been asking Moscow for permission to make fences. But though my father is able to arrange for a man to be killed, Comrade Shard, he cannot arrange for fences to be made! I expect there are similar contradictions in your own country, no?”
Shard couldn’t answer: he felt sickened by what he had seen. P. V. Krosky seemed to understand. She put a friendly hand on his shoulder and said, “Now we go. My father and my grandfather will make things clean and tidy here — the dead guards will go into the marsh with Tuball. They died bravely, attempting to recapture Tuball. You and I, we drive across Poland and East Germany to the frontier.”
*
They came eventually to the same checkpoint, the one Shard had used for his arranged inward crossing: the outward crossing was equally arranged. On the East German side Shard said good-bye to P. V. Krosky. He did so with mixed feelings: there was much to admire, much to be thankful for, but much to revolt from. He wished Colonel Bulnakov joy in his bedding of a cold-blooded killer. As for P. V. Krosky herself, she seemed quite sorry to part. Once on the West German side, Shard turned and waved. She waved back, a little forlornly he thought, then marched off to her waiting car and got in. Shard turned away from the East and was mightily astonished to see Hedge.
“Why?” he asked. “Why you — here?” Fear gripped him. “Is it Beth?”
“No, no. You mustn’t worry. I made enquiries. The improvement is being maintained.”
“I see. Then why, Hedge?”
Hedge shrugged: his pink face was almost invisible for tight-drawn coat-collar and low-worn fur hat. “I’d — er — been informed. I wanted to be on hand myself — just in case.”
“Risky!”
“I know. But I am incognito.”
They walked to a chauffeur-driven car. Shard said, “You’re not incognito from me, Hedge.”
“I’m sorry!” They got in, sat t
ogether in the back, behind a glass screen. Hedge lit a cigar. “I don’t follow.”
Shard said, “God damn it, Hedge, I’m one risk! You nearly sunk me without trace. I just might react to that. Didn’t you trust me?”
“Implicitly. But not the Russians. They could have done — precisely what they did do.” Hedge stared coldly down his nose. “I’m assuming you mean the body?”
“Of course I do. Where is it?”
“Oh — safe.” Hedge pulled at his cigar, exuding tension. “And Tuball?”
Shard looked sideways at anxious prosperity. “D’you know, Hedge, I don’t believe he did know the facts behind that phone number — or even that it was on the letter. I really don’t believe he ever did,”
“Too bad — if he didn’t. Where is he?”
“Oh — dead.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure. He’s very dead.” Stark and simple, Shard put Hedge in the picture, felt the sag of relief from the heavy body. “Comrade Krosky did her part, now I do mine. Hedge, that body goes back to the family.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not being. Hedge, I mean what I say. Tuball’s been silenced for you, maybe unnecessarily. So has the Soviet Government — just so long as you honour a bargain made in your name, that is.” Shard saw no reason why he should not slightly distort the actual terms of his promise.
“Damn it, Shard, you’ve exceeded your brief — ”
“I could always have a word with Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine. After all, I used to work for him. I believe he has good Press contacts, among other things.
Just a few words in various interested ears…untrue words I’ll agree — but still. Tuball’s dead, and I doubt if Moscow would bother to contradict.”
“Blackmail?”
“Yes.”
Hedge stared, mouth open. “You’d do that? Tell bare-faced lies about me?”
“Yes. I might even drop the word you’d been having it off with P. V. Krosky — that’d be rather nice. In a good cause, you see. I could call it the national interest, Hedge, couldn’t I? East-West relations do still matter — don’t they?”
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