Bearpit

by Brian Freemantle

  Who’d talked: defected to Malik’s camp, so soon? Agayans? An internal spy in the cipher section? A leak from the Kabul rezidentura to which the man’s son was attached? Panchenko, he thought abruptly. He’d ordered Panchenko to go ahead as planned. Was that the mistake! Had he himself stupidly stumbled into a Malik-designed trap? Or …? Kazin tried to halt the unanswerable demands flooding into his mind, someone desperate to close the watertight doors of a sinking vessel against the destructive inrush of water. Good word, destructive: appropriate. That’s what he risked being, destroyed, if he continued sitting there, letting the panic engulf him. Stop! Had to stop to think properly: analyse as best he could what might have happened. Then work it out. Dispassionately. No fear. No panic. Not more than it was possible to avoid, at least. Then plan. Blindly perhaps, in the immediate moment. But still try to plan. Minimize the potential dangers. If only … Kazin got the doors finally closed, actually panting like someone relieved after expending a great effort. Analyse was another good word, just as appropriate. One question – one consideration – at a time. Agayans first, then.

  Agayans was a traditionalist, one of the old school acolytes, stretched to the absolute extreme of his ability, who ensured safety by unquestioning obedience. But there were those medical warnings of the man’s increasing uncertainty. Might Agayans not have worried at the orders from one joint Chief Deputy to initiate retribution proposals upon a memorandum issued by the other? And seen safety in approaching Malik? Kazin’s coldness spread further through him, at a further recollection; hadn’t Agayans actually queried whether Malik should be included in the supposed Afghanistan planning? Quickly – to Kazin’s sighed relief – came the contradiction, the strongest and most convincing argument against it being Agayans. Malik would not have ordered the arrest of his prime witness; rather he’d be embalming Agayans in featherdown, ensuring every comfort and protection.

  The cipher room? Again unlikely to the point of impossibility. There were rotating shifts so no one single man would have encoded all the messages to Kabul and so been able to evolve a complete picture of what was intended. And even if one man had handled everything, there would have been no reason for protest. Or – more important still – have any reason to link Malik with it.

  Kabul had to be the most likely source. From that cosseted, spoiled bastard of a son. But yet again that was impossible: any message from Kabul would invariably have been routed through Agayans. Who could then have intercepted it?

  So how? And how much? Useless conjecture: he wanted positives and all he could speculate were negatives. Positives then. Protect himself. Against the unknown and the unseen but protect himself as much as he felt possible. Definite links with Agayans had to be the most dangerous and he’d already planned here: planned, he reflected bitterly, to prove his complete uninvolvement in a politically absurd proposal which should – but couldn’t any longer – have entrapped Malik into appearing to be the architect.

  The most direct link was the memorandum in which Agayans had set out the proposal and to which Kazin had been careful only to give unprovable verbal acceptance. He took it now from his safe, with no need to read it again. Across it he scrawled ‘Unacceptable. Unequivocable rejection’ and added the date to coincide with that of the day Agayans had written and annotated it. Also from the safe he extracted a backlog of documentation for his secretariat’s attention and dispersal, carefully sorting through until he reached the appropriate and matching date, inserting the Agayans document into the place it would have properly occupied if his supposed refusal had occurred on the day he received it. Just as carefully he placed the whole pile in the Out tray, for the following morning’s collection. Kazin pulled his appointment diary towards him, studying the two entries. Both read: ‘Review of position in Afghanistan. No further action.’

  What would the entries in Agayans’ diary read? The floodwaters began to seep in again as Kazin realized there would be no opportunity for him to seize and have undetectably changed whatever notes or documentation Agayans might have left, which had always been the intention. A fresh numbness began to move through the plump, sweat-dampened man and then the telephone sounded.

  ‘There’s been an unforeseen incident,’ reported Panchenko, using the coded phrase that had been agreed between them.

  Relief – slight but still relief – moved through Kazin. He said: ‘Thank you for telling me,’ and replaced the receiver. There still remained too many uncertainties, too many unknown dangers.

  The first two days there had been anxiety, a will-there-won’t-there-be tenseness, but the designated book had been properly upright in its rack in the United Nations library. On the following day Yevgennie Levin’s attitude changed to one of expectation because Proctor, who had never let him down, had after all promised three days at the outside. And this was the third day. The boring, unread census document was there, like before; still upright, still undisturbed, still unread.

  Levin’s eyes clouded in frustration, and careless of being seen he closed them tight against the emotion. All the preparation had been against difficulties arising on his side, not that of the Americans. So what had happened? What had gone wrong?

  8

  ‘Dead!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’ There was a report, as stiffly formal as the colonel standing before him, but Malik wanted more, much more. He wanted everything.

  ‘I responded immediately to your telephone instructions,’ recited Panchenko, monotone. ‘But it was evening, as you know. It entailed going to the Comrade Director’s home …’

  Malik sighed, curbing the impatience. It was as if the man were reading from the inadequate report he had already submitted. Malik said: ‘How did you know Agayans would be at home?’

  ‘I did not,’ said Panchenko. ‘I learned by telephoning the duty registration clerk here that Agayans had already left. The garage said the journey was logged to his home, on Gogolevskiy Boulevard …’

  Unimpeachable police work, acknowledged Malik. He said: ‘Was any indication given that you were coming?’

  Panchenko allowed himself a frown. ‘Telephoning ahead, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ His broken shoulder ached, like it often did, always an unnecessary intrusion. He resisted massaging it.

  ‘There was no prior contact,’ insisted Pancheno stiffly.

  Malik wondered if the man slept in an attitude of permanent attention. He said: ‘How many men were assembled?’

  ‘A squad. Four men besides myself,’ said the security chief.

  ‘Were the four with you at Gofkovskoye Shosse?’

  ‘I telephoned the department here, instructing they should be assembled.’

  ‘So you returned here to pick them up?’

  ‘No. We arranged a meeting point at Verdandskovo.’

  ‘So there was no possibility of Agayans being aware of any security men gathering outside his home?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ assured Panchenko. He thought the other man’s disability made him appear ominous and threatening.

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘The Comrade Director answered the door himself. He was a bachelor, as I have said in the report. He lived alone.’

  ‘The door opened at once?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Malik inferred the colonel’s impatience at being taken entirely through an episode he believed already properly accounted for. Further to irritate the impatience, Malik said: ‘You haven’t set out in the report what his attitude was at being confronted by you.’

  Panchenko hesitated, then said: ‘Surprise.’

  ‘Surprise would have been obvious,’ said Malik. ‘What about fear?’

  ‘Not until after we entered the apartment.’

  ‘Before which there was some conversation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who spoke first?’

  Again there was a pause, as if for recall. Panchenko said: ‘We practically spoke together. The Comrade Director asked what we were there for as I a
nnounced I had orders for his arrest.’

  ‘What was Agayans’ reply to that?’

  ‘He asked for what offence. I told him I did not know.’

  Malik isolated Panchenko’s mistake and decided to wait to use it to undermine the stiff-backed attitude later. Hurrying on to prevent Panchenko realizing it, Malik said: ‘What then?’

  ‘He asked upon whose authority – I said yours,’ recounted the security chief. ‘He said he had done nothing wrong and asked if he could get dressed: that’s how he got to the bedroom.’

  ‘Dressed?’ queried Malik.

  ‘When we got to the apartment Agayans was in bed,’ reminded Panchenko. ‘It’s in the report.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Approximately nine.’

  ‘He was wearing nightclothes at nine o’clock at night?’

  ‘And a robe.’

  ‘At once,’ prompted Malik.

  ‘I do not understand,’ complained Panchenko.

  ‘You told me earlier that when you knocked the door was opened at once by Agayans,’ said Malik. ‘If he had been in bed – and before answering the door had to put on a robe – there should have been a delay.’

  ‘I …’ started Panchenko and stopped. Then he resumed: ‘It appeared to me that the door opened at once: I agree now there would have been some slight delay.’

  ‘So that part of your report is wrong?’

  ‘Yes,’ conceded the colonel tightly.

  ‘You agreed to his getting dressed?’

  ‘Although he was under arrest upon your orders I did not think I should detain a Comrade Director in his nightclothes.’

  ‘You said Agayans showed fear, after his initial surprise,’ prompted Malik. ‘So far I don’t get any impression of fear. It seems almost a normal conversation.’

  ‘The request to get dressed was made very subserviently,’ insisted Panchenko. ‘It was anything but a normal conversation.’

  ‘Tell me about going into the bedroom.’

  Panchenko swallowed and said: ‘He walked directly from the main room into the bedroom. With my squad I remained in the living area. After a while it occurred to me that Agayans was taking a long time to get ready. I hurried into the bedroom. He was on the far side with the bed between us. The gun was already against his head. The moment I entered, he fired.’

  Malik intentionally let the silence build up between them, all the time staring fixedly at the colonel. Panchenko remained rigidly to attention: Malik supposed the man would have learned to remain immobile like that on a hundred parade grounds. He said: ‘Does the main living room lead directly into the bedroom?’

  ‘No,’ conceded Panchenko.

  ‘You said he walked directly from the main room into the bedroom,’ reminded Malik.

  ‘I meant to convey there was no further conversation between us,’ said Panchenko. ‘There is a corridor leading to the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom.’

  ‘So without any further conversation between you, Igor Fedorovich Agayans walked from the living room, down the corridor and into his bedroom?’ Malik was not sure but there appeared to be a sheen of perspiration upon the other man’s forehead. Raising his voice to make the demand, he said: ‘The corridor is straight, from the main living area? With the bedroom at its far end?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Panchenko, in further desperate concession. ‘The corridor bends, halfway along.’

  ‘So you did not know if Agayans had gone directly into the bedroom?’

  ‘There was only the bathroom or kitchen, as alternatives.’

  ‘When you assembled your men on Verdandskovo you went at once to Gogolevskiy Boulevard?’

  ‘Yes.’ In his caution Panchenko’s stance broke, the man’s head going slightly to one side in his effort to anticipate a new direction.

  ‘Without any outside reconnaissance of the block? Obtaining plans, even?’ Like I did, Malik thought.

  ‘There was no outside reconnaissance,’ conceded the security man.

  ‘There might have been a fire escape from the unseen bathroom into which Agayans could easily have gone!’ said Malik. ‘A fire escape down which he could have fled. Is it normal for you, as an arresting officer, to allow a detainee to go out of sight?’

  ‘No,’ said Panchenko, tightly again.

  ‘Desperate enough, he could have returned instead to shoot all of you rather than shooting himself, couldn’t he?’

  ‘I walked with him to the beginning of the corridor,’ blurted Panchenko.

  ‘That isn’t in your report,’ challenged Malik at once. ‘You said: “I – and my squad – remained in the living room”.’

  ‘I … we … did. I went with him to the commencement of the corridor: he went from there by himself.’

  ‘Why walk to the beginning of the corridor and then stop?’ demanded Malik. He shifted, trying to alleviate the shoulder ache.

  ‘He said he wanted privacy to get dressed.’

  ‘A detainee giving an order to the arresting head of security of the First Chief Directorate!’ said Malik, allowing the incredulity.

  ‘A mistake,’ admitted Panchenko, collapsing further.

  ‘Twice you’ve told me there was no further conversation after Agayans asked to dress,’ reminded Malik. ‘That was a lie, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was not a lie,’ tried Panchenko desperately. Sweat was visibly leaking from the man now.

  ‘But you said nothing about the request for privacy.’

  ‘It did not seem important.’

  ‘Not important!’ exclaimed Malik, incredulous again. ‘It allowed the most vital witness in an ongoing inquiry to kill himself! They were probably the most important words he spoke!’

  ‘Probably,’ mumbled Panchenko, his voice difficult to hear.

  ‘Isn’t it regulations, having once taken a person into custody, that that person shall remain at all times under observation, until placed in a cell?’ persisted Malik relentlessly.

  ‘At that precise moment I did not consider I had taken Comrade Director Agayans into custody,’ avoided Panchenko, attempting to rally. ‘I was not formally in possession of any specific charge.’

  ‘Don’t be pedantic,’ rejected Malik impatiently.

  ‘That is the wording of the regulation,’ said Panchenko, achieving a small victory.

  Choosing his words carefully, Malik said: ‘Having been dismissed by an arrested man, what did you then do? Remain at the corridor mouth? Or return to your squad?’

  Panchenko’s face burned. ‘Returned to my squad.’

  ‘Was there any conversation between you?’

  ‘There was some discussion about how the passengers would be split between two cars,’ remembered Panchenko. ‘I said I would accompany the Comrade Director, with the driver and one back-up man and the other car should provide escort.’ Panchenko appeared to relax slightly, feet touching safer ground.

  ‘How long did that discussion take?’

  ‘Ten minutes,’ replied Panchenko at once.

  ‘Approximately ten? Or exactly ten?’

  ‘Exactly ten.’

  ‘How do you know it was ten minutes exactly?’

  ‘As I walked from the head of the corridor I checked my watch. It was automatic to look again the moment I became concerned about Agayans.’

  ‘You went to the bedroom without saying anything to the rest of the squad?’

  Panchenko’s throat was moving. ‘I think I may have told them to stay where they were.’

  ‘How did you go to the bedroom?’ picked up Malik. ‘Did you walk? Or did you run?’

  ‘I walked quickly.’

  ‘You were wearing uniform?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Panchenko, almost truculently.

  ‘The regulation boots are comparatively heavy. Do you think Agayans might have heard you?’

  ‘I have no way of telling.’

  ‘You didn’t shout?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Having respected the man’s wish for pr
ivacy, you didn’t call a warning that you were coming into his bedroom?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was the door closed or open?’

  ‘Ajar.’

  ‘Did you knock?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or shout, finally?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Pushed straight in.’

  ‘Privacy was completely unimportant now?’

  ‘I was alarmed. With good reason.’

  ‘Very good reason,’ sneered Malik. ‘So what did you see, in the bedroom that you finally entered?’

  ‘Agayans was on the far side of the room. The bed was between us. He had the gun to his head. As I went into the room he pulled the trigger.’

  Malik sighed once more. He said: ‘How was he dressed? Still in his nightclothes? Or had he changed?’

  ‘Still in his nightclothes.’

  ‘So for ten minutes he had stood in his nightclothes holding a gun to his head. Why do you think it took him ten minutes to pull the trigger?’

  Panchenko shrugged. ‘Indecision, perhaps: he was choosing whether or not to kill himself.’

  ‘There was a moment, as you entered, before he pulled the trigger?’

  ‘Seconds.’

  ‘Did you say anything, in those seconds?’

  ‘I shouted.’

  ‘At last!’ mocked Malik. ‘What did you shout?’

  ‘I think “Stop”. Maybe it was “Don’t do it”.’

  ‘You weren’t frightened he might turn the gun on you?’

  ‘It was against his head. It was obvious what he intended to do.’

  ‘But you couldn’t get to him?’

  ‘Not in time,’ said Panchenko. ‘The impact of the shot threw him against the wall, near the bedhead. His body overturned a side table. He fell half on and half off the bed.’

  ‘You checked he was dead?’

  ‘That wasn’t necessary. A lot of his head was gone. The squad came running. I told them to call an ambulance.’

  ‘Not a doctor?’

  ‘It was obviously too late for a doctor.’