‘I wanted to ask you about some Russian words.’
‘But your Russian is very good.’
‘Passable at best. However, I think I’m missing something.’ He paused and took a sip of his coffee, aware that he had better leave the vodka alone for a while. A couple more shots and he would be incapable of exploring what he’d come for, and even less capable of understanding any explanation Shlyapnikov might have. ‘I’ve a friend who is suffering from some kind of dementia. I have the feeling he’s trying to say something but every time I talk to him he goes on about flowers and gardening. And not just with me. He does the same with his daughter.’
The old man laughed. ‘Well, I’m sorry but I’m not a brain doctor. Maybe he just likes flowers.’
‘Little flowers, bouquets, gardeners . . . He seems particularly fond of lilies. You’re probably right. It just seemed strange because his daughter said he had never shown any interest in gardening in the past.’
Teschmaker sighed, picked up the slice of cherry cake and took a bite. It was rich, moist and delicious. ‘Zoya Nikolayevna has surpassed herself.’
He was about to reach for his coffee again when he sensed a shift in the mood. Shlyapnikov had straightened up and was studying him through eyes that had been reduced to slits; shadows under the bushy eyebrows.
‘Tell me exactly what words he used.’
‘You mean in Russian?’
The old man nodded.
‘But he was speaking English.’
‘Then in English. I just want to know what the hell you are talking about.’ Shlyapnikov’s words were slurred but Teschmaker could feel the tension in his voice.
‘Little flowers, lily, bouquet and gardener or gardeners, I’m not sure which.’
The old man picked up his glass and drained it in a single gulp. His hand was trembling. ‘A gardener with a bouquet? Liliya, buket, tsvetok and sadovnik.’ It appeared to Teschmaker that Shlyapnikov had withdrawn and was talking to himself. But then he felt the man’s eyes blaze at him. ‘You are talking about a Russian, right?’
‘No. Not at all.’
‘Pah! Then it is nothing.’ He waved his hand as if to dismiss Teschmaker. ‘You get this man a good doctor is what I say.’
‘But he spent most of his adult life working in Russia.’
Shlyapnikov didn’t appear to have heard. He shifted his weight even further forward on his chair and gazed into the fire. For a while Teschmaker thought he had nothing further to say. Then he heard the old man’s voice. He was speaking so quietly it was only just audible.
‘I think it was back in 1967 when Andropov became KGB chairman. He took the new Department V of the First Chief Directorate and gave them orders to instigate what he termed “special actions of a political nature”. And at the same time he instructed the Line F officers in the KGB residencies to locate possible targets and suggest strategies. While this was happening, Department V set up a number of sabotage and intelligence groups, or DRGs as they were known. There had been so many stuff-ups in the past that they decided on one set of code words for use in all operations. That meant that if an operative was lost, he could be replaced without the new man having to go through any training as he would already know the codes.’
The old man lapsed into silence, his eyes still staring intently at the fire. Teschmaker, sensing where the monologue was heading, wanted to prompt him but he held his tongue. After a time, Shlyapnikov heaved a great sigh and continued. ‘In DRG parlance, a sadovnik or gardener was a saboteur. Liliya was the act of sabotage. The little flower or tsvetok was the detonator and the buket was the explosive device. There were other terms too. Zaplyv or splash was the actual explosion, doroshki were the landing zones for dropping in a team or equipment and beehive, ulya, was the name given to an operational base.’ He turned to Teschmaker. ‘All this is dated information and defectors have long since revealed the sorry history of Department V’s incompetence, but I would say that if your friend is talking about these things, even now, then he should be very careful.’
For a moment Teschmaker just sat and stared into the fire, attempting to imagine Sydney Morris involved in sabotage. Sabotage of what? Where? But it didn’t fit. The man had been a scientist, not an active agent. But then, what did he really know about Jane’s father? Maybe the KGB had decided to utilise the fact that English was his first language.
He leaned over and gentle nudged Shlyapnikov’s shoulder. The old man appeared to have nodded off. ‘Would the DRG have used foreigners for that kind of work?’
‘Many times. Over the years Department V did all kinds of work using both illegals and citizens of the target countries.’ The old man rubbed his eyes, reached for another glass of vodka and began a long and complex explanation of the structures within the KGB. According to Shlyapnikov, the First Chief Directorate got a large increase of funding and staff in the late 1970s and Directorate S, which ran the illegals, was reorganised with Department V being swallowed up by Department 8. Teschmaker found he had tuned out, but he sipped the last of his coffee and sat politely while Shlyapnikov’s monologue meandered through everything from shipping arms to the Irish Communists and operations with the Sandinistas, to tracking down post-war defectors in Australia. After a time the old man stopped talking, and shortly after Teschmaker realised he was sound asleep. He quietly put down his cup and went out to the kitchen where by the delicious aroma he judged the baking had been a success. Zoya Nikolayevna had just pulled the cherry cake from the oven and was gently removing it from the tin.
‘Asleep, is he?’ Zoya shook her head. ‘More and more that’s what he does. Drink and sleep.’
‘With respect, he is an old man,’ Teschmaker began, but the old woman was having none of it.
‘And that should excuse him? Do you see me drinking? The old fool drinks to forget the past and ends up wallowing in it. Russian melancholy is a disease. If he had been half a man we would have had children to look after us in our old age. Let me tell you, there were times when I thought I should just go out and make a baby with someone else.’
Teschmaker was confused. ‘But I thought you had a son who died?’
‘Pah! The old fool told you that?’ Zoya rolled her eyes. ‘He got himself involved with sponsoring this kid to immigrate. Fine choice he made. Some young punk who wanted nothing to do with us and Shlyapnikov didn’t see what was happening. I warned him, but he didn’t listen to me. He bent over backwards to get the boy set up and all the time he was just being used. And of course the next thing we know he’s involved with a bunch of crooks and gets himself killed.’
‘I’m sorry. I always thought he was your boy.’
‘Better having no children than one like that. I didn’t grieve for him.’
‘It seemed to affect Aleksandr Yefremovich . . .’
‘He liked him, but he couldn’t see that he was bad news. Enough.’ She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I had better go and get the old man into bed before he falls out of his chair. You should come and eat on Wednesday. I’ll cook something special for you.’
Teschmaker thanked her and let himself out into the now dark and deserted street. He started in the direction of Lincoln but then, changing his mind, found a phone box and rang the Romanian Embassy. After concluding the call he made his way to the back bar of the Dredger’s Arms and settled into an alcove with a beer and cigarette. Thirty minutes later he saw the man walk in.
For a second Laverov seemed hesitant, peering through the smoke haze, then he saw Teschmaker and came over.
‘I thought I had heard the last from you,’ he said as he took off his coat and slipped into the seat opposite.
‘So did I, Mr Laverov. But I decided it was time we had a talk.’
Laverov gestured the approaching waiter away and turned his attention back to Teschmaker. ‘I really don’t see the need for that. The affairs I am involved with have nothing to do with you. You are far safer keeping a long way away from this.’
Fair enough, Tesc
hmaker thought, but the man had lost little time in getting from Lakeside to the city. He didn’t say anything for a moment but aware that he had a stomach full of cake, coffee and vodka sipped cautiously at his beer.
‘You should take my advice and stay right out of this.’
‘You could have said that over the phone.’
‘You said you wanted to ask me something,’ Laverov retorted.
Teschmaker pushed the packet of cigarettes across the table. ‘Take them back to Russia with you. I’d hate to see you go home empty-handed.’
For a moment Laverov looked nonplussed, then he smiled and picked up the packet. ‘Okay. Maybe I have been a little too hasty.’ He opened the packet and took out a cigarette. ‘My doctor says he hopes they kill me.’
‘I’d change doctors,’ Teschmaker snorted.
‘He is being kind. He knows the work I do and thinks it would be an easier way to die.’
Teschmaker reached over and lit the Russian’s cigarette. ‘Maybe he has a point.’
‘You have no idea how things have changed. I tell you, Teschmaker, if I could turn the clock back I would do it. Under the old regime at least we knew who the enemy was. There was something comforting in knowing that if something went wrong, if something broke down, the Party would tell us it was always the fault of the Americans. An enemy is something to treasure. But now? You would not believe the way people are acting. There are Russians but no Russia. We inhabit the country but don’t even own it any more. Everyone is out for themselves.’ He drew deeply on the cigarette and tilting his head back blew the smoke out towards the ceiling. ‘Without the Party there is no unity. Before, it was the Party that held us together. The Party blamed the Americans and we all hated the Party. But it was that hate that made us a nation.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Teschmaker scoffed. ‘You didn’t hate the Party.’
‘Trust me. It was true. And I should know, I was a member of the Party.’
‘But now you have democracy and capitalism —’
‘Listen! Democracy does not suit the Russian temperament. We are a nation who deep down wants to be told what to do. We want a father —’
‘A Czar?’ Teschmaker drained his beer and wondered whether he should have another. He decided against it.
‘Yes, and not this capitalism. We do not do it very well. You see, we do not know where its limits lie and we are a people who need limits as much as we need a leader. If we know where the boundaries are, we may well argue and brawl about it but in the end there is still a boundary. With capitalism, we think that the only answer to our problems and the limit to our abilities is the dollar. We have embraced capitalism like a madman embracing a bear. But the bear will crush us.’
‘So why are you chasing ancient ghosts?’
Laverov looked startled then, regaining his composure, smiled broadly. ‘Ah, but you have no idea what I am chasing. And I can tell you, it is certainly not a ghost.’
Time to play the bluff, Teschmaker thought. He reached over, retrieved a cigarette and, pausing before lighting it, said casually, ‘So tell me, Comrade Laverov, are you after the gardener or the bouquet? The sadovnik or the buket?’
‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Laverov replied coldly and stubbed out his cigarette.
‘Fine. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’ Teschmaker slid along the seat and got to his feet. ‘If I don’t see you again, have a good trip home.’ Without pausing he turned and started towards the door.
‘You’re a fool if you walk away,’ Laverov said loudly enough to be heard over the buzz of conversation in the bar.
Maybe, Teschmaker thought, but he kept walking. For a moment he thought that Laverov was going to follow, but as he went through the door he saw the Russian signalling to the waiter for a drink. He set out in the direction of Lincoln, walking slowly, savouring his victory. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t received an answer to his question because, although it had only been an instant, the look on Laverov’s face had been sufficient to tell him he was on the right track. For so long he had felt as though he was wandering a maze, lost and directionless. Now, though still in the maze, he had a sudden glimpse of the forces governing its design. And maybe — just maybe — it would be enough. He tossed the cigarette away and picked up his pace, suddenly looking forward to getting back to see Jane.
The temperature dropped fast. The skies had cleared and the earlier chill had turned to an unseasonable cold. Teschmaker wished he had taken a coat, but the day had been balmy and he hadn’t given it a thought. Now it was as though winter had returned. He paused on the edge of the business district, debating whether to take a cab. But the streets were deserted and he realised that it could be a while before a taxi cruised through the now dead heart of the city. Above him, in the strip of sky visible between the darkened buildings, the stars burned fiercely, while at the northern end of the street he thought he could see mist rising from the waters of the Charlotte. He breathed on his hands and saw that even his own breath was steaming. He plunged his hands deep in his pockets and strode on.
It took another fifteen minutes before he saw the squat silhouette of the Dansen Brewery building. Teschmaker was just approaching the entrance when a movement in the shadows opposite caught his eye. For a second he thought it was Rusak and he felt himself tense.
‘Evening, Teschmaker.’ Gerard Edwards stepped into the light. ‘Sorry I startled you.’
‘You’ve taken to hanging around on the streets now?’ Teschmaker noticed that Edwards had taken the precaution of wearing a thick coat.
‘Sinclair’s orders. Seems he’s decided to stop playing games with Rusak and pay some attention where it belongs. He’s got me keeping an eye on Mrs Sinclair and her father.’
‘Oh shit! I’d forgotten about that. How did you go?’
It was true; he had been so absorbed in his own venture he hadn’t given a thought to how Norman and Edwards might be making out. A couple of blocks away a car turned into the street. Teschmaker felt a hand on his arm and Edwards guided him back into the shelter of a darkened doorway.
‘It went fine. Not a problem. There was only one of Rusak’s goons guarding them.’
‘Them?’ That didn’t make sense. There was only Sydney Morris. ‘How do you mean?’
‘The old man and a tall fellow with a ponytail, all tied up, don’t know why. He was a real mess. He wouldn’t have gotten far.’ He paused as the car cruised slowly past them.
‘You mean Ilya? The poet?’
‘Is that what he was?’ Edwards watched as the car disappeared down the road towards the river. ‘A poet. Etiam disiecti membra poetae.’
Teschmaker looked at him in horror. ‘They killed him?’
‘Even when dismembered, the limbs of a poet. Something I picked up at university. No, they didn’t kill him but he was very badly beaten. We dropped him off at the hospital.’
Teschmaker felt relieved, surprisingly so considering that if Jane hadn’t intervened Ilya could well have ended up killing him. ‘And Jane’s father?’
‘Sydney Morris is fine. Far better than Jane expected. It seems the new guard had forgotten to give him his medication so he’s not half as dopey as Jane had seen him before.’
‘Well, I had better go up and see how she’s coping. Are you going to be lurking around all night? Or is Norman going to relieve you?’
Edwards shook his head. ‘No such luck. Norman and Viola were off out somewhere and Sinclair reckoned I could handle it. Mind you, I think Rusak is going to be extremely angry when he sees what we did to his goon.’
Teschmaker didn’t really want to know but felt he should ask. ‘What did you do?’
Edwards shrugged. ‘We didn’t have an option. The man refused to let us in. I’m afraid Rusak’s boys are going to be a little miffed at me for it. I killed him.’
‘Oderint dum metuant.’ Teschmaker smiled. ‘Let them hate, provided that they fear. Something I picked up at university.’ He was a
bout to walk away when a disturbing thought crossed his mind. He turned back to Edwards. ‘By the way, what happened to my unwelcome house guests?’
‘I killed them and left them out for garbage collection . . .’ Edwards stopped, aware that Teschmaker didn’t seem to appreciate his attempt at humour. ‘We dumped Orpheus and the boy back at his house with a gentle warning about what would happen if the newspapers learned of his activities. He’s pissed off but basically undamaged.’
‘Basically?’
‘He may have bumped his head getting out of the car.’
Teschmaker crossed the road, let himself into the apartment building and climbed the stairs. Earlier in the day he had been sceptical when Jane described Sinclair’s change of heart, but the fact that he had organised Edwards to keep an eye on the place struck Teschmaker as a pretty good indication she may well have been right in her assessment. He checked his watch. It was ten forty-five. He slipped the key into the door as quietly as he could and opened the lock. He needn’t have bothered because as he opened the door Jane got up from a chair in the lounge room and came straight over to him. She looked as though sleep was the last thing on her mind.
‘I thought something had happened to you,’ she snapped and pushed past him to lock the door, slamming home the security bolt with more force than was necessary.
Teschmaker felt like a schoolkid caught sneaking home after staying out too late, but he realised that there was more to her anger than just his lateness. Jane looked as though she was ready to explode. ‘Sorry,’ he said lamely. ‘It took longer than expected.’
‘You should have rung me. I’ve got more important things to do than worry about where you are.’
‘I said I’m sorry.’
He moved around her into the kitchen; the place was a mess. A dirty wine glass, bread crumbs everywhere, three dirty plates had been abandoned on the bench, the cutlery scattered around them. Instinctively Teschmaker reached for a cloth to wipe up the mess, but the coffee plunger had been tipped into the sink and the cloth was covered with coffee grounds. Picking it up he began to rinse it under the tap.
Delicate Indecencies Page 32
